




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 


Shelf 


UNITED STATES OF AMEEICA, 







[oT^Td 








lil 

\ [ . y 



lllllliw 

n 

1 ' ^ i 

\hk 


mmrih 

*A/ 


^ A'f ! 

Jna . .Aa a in: !;■■''■'.■■ 










I 


...• . ■’ 



.i ' 

4 . 




• •> / » ‘ J* 

i; / ' . » 'T 






•i, 


V 

.- cr 


i 








V ' 








4 


Is ^ 




^ ^ ^Kjrv. ' ' 'Cfll ■ ‘ * V 


/ • 


*•' 


. ' i. 


• ■ I 


^ 9 


:/:''', •- w.V'A .*• 

V.-' -V .• " V ' 

- V’.* , .•. ■ ^*. I . 'l . 




»♦( 


• ♦ 


I l' ■ • ^ O • ’ ■ * • i 


f . 


; A .:<v 










\; 'j‘ 




L / 


• j 


* / : 


r • *•'••• 




iL; ^ 


,4^\ ,4l ' * ■''* '■ 

* ■ B •« . "• C .-7^ 




.L" ■ 


i'';^"’4,fer>i.. 

I ' ^ '■'Jlf.f- I 




f 


1;:'^ 


k.» > 


' I 


'-- ',t' ^V*vMtV\:^ ;v 1 


• * 

V “ 


, i» 


. f . J * T '-f , 

iftcaja.' ^ • .* » 


•f. 


V.. 


» 


■» ' 


v5--^ 


« 




•S'v*i'''vV. 

Us 

y[^ 


?4 


i ■ :■ ' 


M 




V •- 


t ‘ 




'V.* 



• ’ 


H ^ ' 


.’ V 


|._i I. J 


'>-/■; 


■vF^ 

■ ■* k)i 

i 1 4^ 


r* » 


» _. 


’»/.• 


• <.• 



‘4 


*y 55^*^ ■> 



• t 


^ m 





fy 


> i'' 

^ ^ o ‘ r » 


‘1 ■ ^ TH.* 

'J • j ■^« «<\. '■ 

I»4 A ^ / 


^t< 


'“I 






t'» 


^/* 




-1/ jiK* -i-i* 4 ■.’ 

?'?7' ■ ■ " 


V'r 


l* - *' 


• P^>J 


/ 


V# 


ayf,, 




. M,- 











D^S 08 . l>OIJlfL.K 


PKlCft: 20 eiil^TS 




! King Arthur 


NOT A LOVE STORY. 


By miss MULOCK 


Author of ‘*Joliu llalifax« Geutleinau.” 


17 TO 27 VANDEVV>TEf^ 3T 

ewYo^- 


The Seaside Library, 'l!'l WSyiil.M. yilo^npilW |.T,u'pei- auiium. 
yrlghted 1 hh 6 by George Munro-Entered at the Post Office at New Y ork at second class rates- -Tniie 1 Sh 





THE KING OF STORY PAPERS. 


THE 

NEW YORK FIRESIDE COMPANION. 

A PATER FOR THE HOME CIRCES. 

PURE, BRIGHT AND INTERESTING. 


THE FIRESIDE COMPANION numbers among its contributors the 
best of living fiction writers. Its Detective Stories are the most absorbing 
ever published, and its specialties art, features peculia. to this journal. 

A Fresh Sermon by Rev. T. De Witt Talmage is 
Published in Every Number. 


THE FIRESIDE COMPANION is the most interesting weekly paper 
published in the United States, embracing in its contents the best Stories, 
the best Sketches, the best Humorous Matter, Random Talks, Fashion 
Articles, and Answers to Correspondents, etc. No expense is spared to 
get the best matter. 

Among the contributors to The Fireside Companion are Mary E. 
Bryan, Lucy Randall Comfort, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, Laura Jean 
Libbey, “ Old Sleuth,” Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne,” 
Mary C. Freston, /nnabel Dwight, Clyde Raymond, Kate A. Jordan, 
Louise J. Brooks, Charlotte M, Stanley, etc. 


TERMS:— The New York Fireside Companion will be sent for one 
year, on receipt of $3: two copies for $5. Getters-up of clubs can after- 
ward add single copies at $2.50 each. We will be responsible for remiv- 
tances sent in Registered Letters or by Post-office Money Orders. Postage 
free. Specimen copies sent free. 

Address GEORGE MUNRO, 

P. O. Box 3751 . MUNRO’S PUBLISHING HOUSE, 

17 to 27 Vandewater St., and 45 to 53 Rose St., New York. 



If you appreciate a Corset that will neither break down nor roll up in t94at\ 
TRY BALLi’S CORSETS. 

If you value health and comfort, 

WEAR BAEI/S CORSETS. 

If you desire a Corset that fits the first day you wear it, and needs no 
“ breaking in,” 

BUY IJAIiJL’S CORSETS. 

‘ - If you desire a Corset that yields with every motion of the body, 
EXAMINE BA EE’S CORSETS. 

If you want a perfect fit and support without compression, 

USE BAEE’S CORSETS. 


Owing to their peculiar construction it is impossible to break steels in 
Ball’s Corsets. 

The Elastic Sections in Ball’s Corsets contain no rubber, and are warranted 
to out- wear the Corset. 

Every pair sold with the following guarantee : 

“ If not perfectly satisfactory in every respect after three weeks* 
trial, the money paid for them will be refunded (by the dealer), 

Soiled or Unsoiled.” 


The wonderful popularity of Ball's Corsets has induced rival manu* 
facturers to imitate them. If you want a Corset that will give perfect satis- 
faction, insist on purchasing one marked. 

Patented Feb. 22 , 1881 . 

And see that the name BAEE is on the box; also Guarantee of the 

Chicago Corset Co. 

AWARDED HIGHEST PRIZES WHEREVER EXHIBITED. 

For Sale l»y all I.<eacliii;;' l^ry OoodN 1>ealers iai tlie 
Uuited ^tatei«, 4'aiiada and Kagland. 



ilUNRO^S PUBLIOA TICKS. 


The Heiress of Hilldrpp; 

OR. 

THE ROMANCE OF A YOUNG GIRL. 

By CHARLOTTE M. BBAEME, 

Author of “ Dora Thome.''' 

Complete in Seaside Library (Pocket Edition), No. 74?. 
PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 

PRICK 30 CEI^TS. 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage pre- 
paid, on receipt of the price, 20 cents. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


SBASIDB, IIBMRY (POCSEI EDITM), »0. HI 

A CARDINAL SIN. 

A NOVEL. 

BY HUGH CONWAY, 

Author op “ Called Back.” 

PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE 


PRICK 2© CKNiTS, 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage 
prepaid, on receipt of the price, 20 cents. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, ^ 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street New York: 


KING ARTHUR 


NOT A LOVE STORY. 



By MISS MULOCK, 

Author of “ John Halifax, Gentleman.” * * 


1 


NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 


17 TO 27 Vandkwateb Street, 




MISS MULOCK^S WORKS 


CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION): 


NO. PRICE. 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman 20 

245 Miss Tommy ...... ,10 

808 King Arthur 20 


V 


I 

PREFACE. 


This book is founded on facts^, which happened a good 
many years ago in America; the adopting parents were 
American; the child died young. I have retold the story, 
with necessary artistic variations, because it teaches truths 
not always recognized. The world, voluble enough on the 
duties of children to parents, is strangely silent on the far 
more momentous ones of parents to children. This simple, 
and in the main point true tale, may suggest to some 
thoughtless readers what the Heavenly Father means when 
He sends to earthly fathers and mothers the blessing, and 
responsibility of a child. 



KING ARTHUR. 


CHAPTER 1. 

Fully twenty years before the great St. Gothard Tunnel 
was made or thought of, when Andermatt was still the 
favorite resting-place of travelers passing from Switzerland 
into Italy, and vice versd, a group of half a dozen persons 
sat round the talle d^hdte of the principal hotel there, eat- 
ing their rather meager dinner. For it was early in June, 
and the stream of regular tourists had not yet begun to 
flow. 

Not at any season do travelers pause long here, the val- 
ley of Uri being considered by pleasure-seekers in general 
a rather dull place. Perhaps; and yet it has its charms. 
It is a high level plateau, solemn and still, in the heart of 
the Alps. Through it comes pouring down the wild River 
Reuss, and up from it climb three desolate mountain roads, 
leading to three well-known passes — the St. Gothard, the 
Furca, and the Oberalp. 

The valley itself is smooth and green, though too high 
above the level of the sea to be very fertile. Little corn is 
grown there, and the trees are few and small, but the past- 
urage during the brief summer — only three months — is 
abundant, and extending far up the mountain-sides. Every 
yard of available land is cultivated, and the ground is 

par seme (to use a French word for which there is no 
English equivalent), with that mass of wild-flowers which 
makes Switzerland in June a perfect garden wherever you 
turn your eyes. 

But these and all other beauties of the place were invisi- 


8 


KING ARTHUR. 


ble to the travelers, for a dense white mist had suddenly 
come down and blotted out everything. 

“ To-day would have been worse even than yesterday for 
those young fellows to have crossed the St. Gothard from 
Italy, as they told me they did,'^ said one of the three quiet 
English-speaking guests at the head of the table, looking 
across at the three voluble Italians at the foot of it. 

Scarcely more detestable weather than when we crossed, 
doctor. My wife has taken all these five days to get over 
it; and is hardly well yet. 

“ Oh, yes, dear/"’ said the lady — the only lady at table — 
small and ordinary in appearance, but with a soft voice 
and sweet eyes, which continually sought her husband ^s. 
He was tall, thin, and serious; in fact, had taken the head 
of the table and said grace in unmistakable clerical fash- 
ion. He looked the very picture of an English clergyman, 
and she of a clergyman's wife. One seemed about forty, 
the other fifty years old. 

The third traveler, addressed as “ Doctor,^ ^ was not 
English, though he spoke our language with a far better 
pronunciation than most of us do. But he spoke it with a 
- slight nasal twang, said to be inevitable, in consequence of 
^ climate, with our Transatlantic cousins. Also he had a 
gaunt, lean, dried-up appearance; but his long bony limbs 
were agile and strong, and his brown face was both shrewd 
and kindly; full of humor, yet at the same time full of 
tenderness, with no small amount of capacity as well. 

“ My dear Mrs. Trevena, I guess we had the devihs own 
weather (begging your pardon!) that day we crossed from 
Italy. When the snows begin to melt the Pass is worse and 
more dangerous than in the middle of winter. And in 
addition, we had that soaking rain. I am sure I was 
drenched to the skin for eight mortal hours. Medically 
speaking, I wonder any one of us, especially the women, 
came through the journey alive. But you say you^re all 
right now, ma’am 


KING ARTHUR. 


9 

“ Oh, yes/" answered Mrs. Trevena, smiling. She seemed 
a person so accustomed to be “ not strong/" that she pre- 
ferred to smile at illness, and make as light of it as possi- 
ble. “ I only hope the other two women — the only women 
who were in the sledges beside myself — came olf as easily. 
I suppose they went on at once, for I have not seen them 
in the hotel since. Have you. Dr. Franklin?"" 

‘‘ Yes,"" said the doctor. He was not a man of many 
words. 

Are they here still, do you know?"" 

Yes,"" he answered again, with still greater abruptness 
and brevity. 

‘‘ I wish I had known it, and I would have inquired how 
they were. I felt so sorry for the lady — she was certainly 
a lady, though she was shabbily dressed, and so muffled 
up, it was almost impossible to see her face. The old 
mulatto woman, who seemed her maid, was very anxious 
over her. They had not half wraps enough — ^yet when I 
offered her a rug she refused it with a mere shake of the 
head. She couldn"t be English, or, hearing me speak, she 
would surely have spoken."" 

No— not English."" 

“ What was she then? German?"" 

American. My dear lady, you will not find two 
mouthfuls on that poulet It looks more like an overgrown 
sparrow; really, the food here is abominable."" 

“No wonder,"" said the clergyman mildly. “ 1 believe 
they have to carry up nearly everything from the valleys 
below — several thousand feet. Nothing will grow here — 
not even the chickens. What a place Andermatt must 
be to live at in winter!"" 

“Yet they do live here. Madame told me to-day — so 
far as I could understand her English — I wish I spoke bet- 
ter French, Austin ! — that they keep the hotel open all win- 
ter. Her elder children go to school at Lucerne, but the 
two little boys learn from the pasteur here. They go to 


10 


KING ARTHUB. 


him every day in a sledge, drawn by Juno, the huge St. 
Bernard who is always lying at the hotel dbor.^^ 

Listen to her!^^ said the grave clergyman, turning 
upon the little sweet-faced woman an affectionate look. ‘‘ I 
do believe if my wife were dropped down in the wilds of 
Africa, within three days she would have made friends with 
all the blackamoors, big and little — especially the little 
ones — have found out all their affairs, and been made the 
confidante of all their sorrows. 

“ In the language of signs — as now,^^ laughed Mrs. Tre- 
vena. 

“ Never mind, ma’am; you manage somehow. Ma- 
dame’s poor httle boy with the broken leg and his German 
honne look out for your daily visit with great excitement. I 
guess they’ll miss you when you go away. ” 

“ And I shall miss Andermatt. I like the place; it is so 
quiet — so utterly out of the world. And the hotel-people 
are so simple and good; I seem to know all about every- 
body.” 

Do you, ma’am?” said the doctor with a sharp ques- 
tioning look, which fell harmless on the innocent face; then, 
apparently satisfied, he added, ‘‘ How valuable your wife 
must be in your parish at home, Mr. Trevena!” 

“ Invaluable — except that it is so small a parish. But 
we hope for a better living by and by. We have been hoping 
all our hves,” added he, with a slight sigh. 

“ But we do sometimes get what we hope for, Austin,” 
said his wife. You can not think. Dr. Franklin, how he 
has enjoyed his three months’ chaplaincy at the Italian 
lakes — such a lovely spring! and we are going back to a 
second spring — or rather summer — ^in England. We live 
in the country — ^in Cornwall. ” 

“ A region which very likely Doctor Franklin never heard 
of; but we think a great deal of it, being both of us Corn- 
ish-born,” said Mi\ Trevena. He was a little slow in 
speech and formal in manner — this old-fashioned English 


KING ARTHUE. 


11 


gentleman; and the quick, keen, energetic American re- 
garded him with the interest of a student of human nature, 
who had discovered a new phase thereof. They were very 
different; but both being rarely honest and good men, they 
had fallen into a sort of liking; and during the six days 
they had been weather-bound at Andermatt, had become 
tolerably intimate. 

Their not too luxurious meal over, the three Ejjiglish- 
speaking inmates of the hotel still sat on at the table d’hote; 
comparatively silent — at least when contrasted with the 
voluble young Italians below. 

What can they be talking about, so fast and furious — 
almost as if they were going to fight said Mrs. Trevena, 
somewhat amused, while her husband looked annoyed — as a 
Briton often does at anything foreign which he does not 
understand. But the more cosmopolite American only 
laughed. He had traveled through many lands on both 
sides the ocean; he spoke at least three Continental tongues, 
and had been a great help in that and other ways to the 
English parson, who knew no modern language but his 
own. 

Why can not people converse without gesticulating like 
savages and looking as if they were about to tear one an- 
other to pieces,^'’ observed he, in some irritation. 

Not at all!^^ laughed the Kentuckian. They are the 
best of friends. Two of them belong to the Teatro at 
Milan, sent in pursuit of a singer there, who has broken 
her engagement, and gone off, it is supposed, to London or 
Paris in search of a better one. They donT think her flight 
implies anything worse than love of money; they say the 
signora had no lovers — only a husband, and perhaps a bad 
one.^^ 

“ Poor lady!^' said Mrs. Trevena. “ But if she were a 
real lady she would never be an opera-singer. What a 
dreadful life it must be!^^ 

The doctor laughed in liis dry way — he was more of a 


12 


KING AKTHUK. 


laughing than a weeping philosopher^, and of practical 
rather than sentimental mind — ^then looked at his watch. 
“ Excuse me; I have a visit to pay this evening.'’^ 

“ Is it to madame^s little boy with the broken leg? Then 
I will go first, just for a minute, and leave some pictures to 
amuse him — poor little patient soul!^^ 

“ That is just like my wife,^’ said Mr. Trevena, looking 
after her with a smile that ended in a sigh. 

‘‘ Mrs. Trevena seems uncommonly fond of children. 
Perhaps she has left some behind her at home? I^’m a 
family-man myself; and after two years in Europe I sha'^nT 
be sorry to see those ten little shavers of mine in Ken- 
tucky. 

‘‘ Ten, have you? We have none. We had one — ^but it 
only lived a few hours. My wife has never quite got over 
the disappointment; and it was to give her a total change 
for mind and body that I accepted the chaplaincy abroad. 
We have only been married three years, though we waited 
for fifteen,” added the good man with the faintest shade of 
a blush on his calm middle-aged face. I was a fellow of 
my college, and at last I got a college living — rather a poor 
one. But we are very happy — my wife and I. We shall 
at least end our days together. 

“ Phew!” said the American, repressing a low whistle, 
while his kindly eyes took a curiously soft expression as they 
rested on his companion. He had had a fairly happy life 
himself, and his “ ten little shavers ” were obviously very 
dear to him. “ She^s a good woman — your wife,-^^ con- 
tinued he bluntly. “So is mine. I^d lay you a dollar 
against ten cents, youfil not find such a mother anywhere 
as Mrs. Franklin. I wish all women were like our two, 
sir.” 

“ I hope many women are,” answered the mild clergy- 
man — adding anxiously, “ Do not speak to Mrs. Trevena of 
what I told you — her lost child. It is a-sore place in her 
heart still; never likely to be healed. But we have made 


KING AETHUB. 13 

up our minds to be content: and we are content. God 
knows best. " 

‘‘ I suppose so.^^ 

“ I am sure so; and I am a much older man than you. 
IsnH it strange,^'’ continued the clergyman, laying his hand 
kindly on the doctor^ s arm, ‘‘ that you and I should have 
talked of this and many other things — we who never met 
before, and in all probability shall never meet again 

“ Perhaps for that very reason; I have often found 
it so. People tell me things that they wouldn^t tell their 
most intimate friends. You have no idea the odd secrets 
and odd people that I have come across during my life. By 
Jove — what a bother it is sometimes! But I beg your par- 
don — I was thinking of something else — something not too 
agreeable. And now I must go to my patient — who is not, 
as your wife imagined, the little broken-legged boy. How- 
ever, in our profession we learn one good thing — to hold 
our tongues. Good-night, sir. 

‘‘ Good -night, doctor. YouJl drive up to Hospenthal 
with us, as my wife wishes, if it is a fine day to-morrow, 
and your patient can spare you?^’ 

Oh, yes — ^yes. She — ” Here Hr. Franklin set his lips 
together and clinched his fist, as if to beat himself for 
nearly letting a cat jump out of the bag. ' ‘ Certainly — 
certainly ! Good-evening. ^ 

He left the room by one door just as Mrs. Trevena en- 
tered by another. Her husband greeted her with a smile 
— the welcoming smile of those who have been necessary to 
one another for years, who never weary of each other^s 
company, because it scarcely is company — the two having 
so grown together in all their tastes and habits that they 
feel like one. If the little life that had come, and then 
“Unto stillness passed again 
And left a hlack, unknown before ” — 

had been a loss to them, it had undoubtedly but 
“ Made them love the more.” 


0 


14 


king akthur. 


That is, if more were possible. But the more or the less 
■with regard to love is a question that chiefly troubles 
younger folk. The old accept it — only too thankfully — 
and cease to investigate it, or to weigh and measure it, and 
more than their daily sunshine or the air they breathe. 

The mist has lifted, Austin, and there is promise of a 
good sunset — as much as the mountains will let us see of it; 
and a full moon will soon be creeping over those white 
peaks opposite. Hark! — there are the bells of the cattle 
coming home. Are you ready for a walk, dear?^^ 

Quite ready, Susannah. 

‘‘ Shall we go to the DeviFs Bridge — or up toward Hos- 
penthal? No, for we shall be driving that way to-morrow. 
I should like to get as far up as the Hospice, and be close 
under the eternal snows once again — see them in the sun- 
shine and calm, instead of such a deluge of ram as the day 
we crossed from Airolo. ” 

‘‘ I wonder it did not give you your death of cold, my 
poor wife. 

“ Those other two women — the old and the young one — 
were worse ofl than I, for they had nobody to take care of 
them — and she patted softly her * husband '’s shoulder. 

I felt so sorry for them. I have often thought of them 
since. 

“ You think of everybody, Susannah — except yourself. 
Come along! and as we go you can tell me what you think 
about one thing — our getting back as fast as we can to Eng- 
land. 

Very well, dear. 

Somehow, though she was mild-faced, quiet, and small, 
and he was big and hale — even yomig-looking for his years 
— it was evident the good clergyman leaned upon his wife 
not a little. And there was that in Mrs. Trevena^s sweet 
composure which implied, not the perpetual acquiescence, 
feeble and flaccid, wliich some meu think would be so de- 
lightful to have — until they get it; but an amount of d^- 


KTKG AKTHUR. 15 

mant force, invaluable in the mistress of a household. She 
is no “ perfect woman who is not at the same time 

“Nobly planned 

To warn, to comfort, and command;” 

and gentle as Mrs. Trevena looked, a keen observer could 
detect in her firm little mouth and quiet, silent ways, indi- 
cations of strength and decision, which doubtless would 
prove the greatest possible blessing to the Reverend Austin. 
Not that “the gray mare was the better horse for he 
looked — and was — the most excellent of men, and clergy- 
men ; but it was in many things the more useful horse, 
which fact often makes a pair run all the safer together. 
Austin Trevena, a student and a book-worm all his days, 
would have been practically “ nowhere in the busy world, 
but for his wife; who loved him perhaps all the dearer for 
his very weaknesses. His strength — which lay in his brains, 
and in a moral nature of such high chivalric honor that he 
would have gone to the stake without a murmur or a doubt 
— she more than loved — she worshiped. It had cost her 
some pangs, and a good many long lonely years, but she 
worshiped it still. 

Enough, however, of these two, who had been such a deep 
interest to Dr. Franklin, in his capacity of student of hu- 
man nature, that he had stayed on at Andermatt chiefly 
because they stayed. Also for another reason which with 
the reticence due his profession he did not name. When 
they met him going out, and asked him to accompany them 
in their evening saunter to the Deviks Bridge, he shook his 
head. 

“ IWe got a Deviks Bridge of my own to cross — and I 
wish to Heaven I knew how to manage it,^^ said he. 
“ Good-evening— ITl see you at breakfast to-morrow. 

“ And go with us up to the Hospice?” 

“ If 1 can. Au revoir. ” 

“ He looks anxious and troubled about something,'’'’ ob- 


16 


KING AliTHUK. 


served Mrs. Trevena, when the placid jiair went on their 
way; stopping sometimes to watch the twilight colors on 
the mountains, and listen^ to the tinkle of the cattle-bells, 
as, one after the other, whole herds of the lovely little Swiss 
cows crept musically home. 

‘ ‘ I suspect, my dear, that like another person I know, 
the good doctor often troubles liimself with the troubles of 
other people. He told me he had a patient here — not your 
little sick boy — possibly some case of serious illness.'’^ 

I never heard of any, and I think I should have heard. 
Madame and I have grown to be very good friends.^"’ 

But madame is a shrewd woman, jvho probably knows 
how to keep her own counsel, and not drive away her very 
few customers by rumors of sickness or death in the house. 

“ Heath in the house? You donH think that, Austin? 
If I could be of any use — 

“ You are of most use to me, Susannah, by not wearing 
yourself out over other folks; so don’t put on that poor lit- 
tle anxious face, but let us enjoy our walk. We, thank 
Heaven ! have nobody but our two selves to be anxious over. ’ ’ 

‘‘No,” answered his wife softly. But whether she 
thanked Heaven — Heaven only knew. It was one of those 
unconscious stabs which even the dearest sometimes give; 
and which Heaven only can heal. 

So they strolled on, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, 
in that happy companionship — just “ one and one ” — with- 
out need of a “ shadowy third,” which is the solace of many 
childless couples, and which, so long as it steers clear of 
that fatal dual selfishness which is the bane of conjugal life, 
is a most enviable and desirable thing. 

They saw the sun set, the moon rise — at least by reflec- 
tion, for the actual sunset and moonrise were of course in- 
visible behind the mountains; and then they watched the 
stars come out like jewels in the great blue arch which 
seemed to rest on the high peaks of the St. Gothard range, 
white with eternal snow. When they returned, night had 


KING AKTHUK. 


17 


already fallen; a glimmering light up at Hospenthal, and 
another which burned steadily on till morning in the Ander- 
matt Hotel below, alone testified to-the presence of any hu- 
man existence in the silent valley. 

Next day, at the table dHiote breakfast, the English and 
American travelers alone remained; the Itahans had van- 
ished. Mr. and Mrs. Trevena looked placid and wholesome 
— as usual — in mind and body; but Dr. Franklin seemed 
tired and worried; or, as he expressed it, ‘‘ seedy as if he 
had been up all night — which he owned he had. 

“ But why?’" asked Mrs. Trevena, and then drew back 
and blushed for the intrusive question. 

‘‘ Work, my dear lady — a doctor’s work never ends. But 
now I mean to take a few hours’ play. What time shall 
we start? We can drive up as far as the eternal snow, and 
down again, before dark. ” 

‘ Easily.” 

‘‘All right then. I’m your man. Off we go. I’ll 
halve the carriage with you.” 

“Certainly not; we shall be glad of your company,” 
said the English clergyman, with stately dignity, and de- 
spite his wife’s rather pathetic look — which convinced the 
honest, warm-hearted American that “ halving the car- 
riage ” was a matter of importance to them — Mr. Trevena 
held to his point, and Dr. Franklin was obliged to yield. 

They started. It was one of those gorgeous days — all 
blueness and whiteness, and flooded with dazzling, cloud- 
less sunshine — which in Switzerland come as such a strange 
contrast to the days of mist and storm. The three friends, 
so lately strangers, found themselves ascending cheerily the 
mountain, past the tiny village of Hospenthal and the gla- 
cier of St. Anna; crossing the wild river Keuss, which came 
pouring down the desolate valley; and watching how the 
vegetation, at first bright as the colors of a kaleidoscope 
with masses of lovely unknown flowers, gradually dwindled 
— ceased; until the gray of the huge bowlders, the intense 


18 


KING ARTHUE. 


blue of the sky, and the dazzling whiteness of the mount- 
ain slopes, were the only colors left. The road became 
steeper and steeper, and occasionally was fenced on either 
side by huge walls of immelted, and apparently uever-to- 
be-melted snow. 

“You had better put on your blue veil, Mrs. Trevena, 
and here is a pair of blue spectacles for your husband — I 
wouldnT sacrifice my eyes for the grandest snow-landscape 
in the world. Nor my meals; but I see you have provided 
against mount ain-himger. Is that another fine, fat — spar- 
row?"^ 

She laughed, as people do whose hearts are full, then 
said, with the tears in her eyes, “ How beautiful all is! My 
whole life through I have longed to come here, and now I 
am here — we are here together, Austin. We should be 
very thankful. 

“ I think we are, Susannah, the clergyman said, in his 
grave, tender way. And then the two men — so very differ- 
ent outside, and yet with a certain sympathetic union at 
heart — sat down on either side the little woman, on what 
they called a “ comfortable stone, just below the shining 
wall of snow, forty feet high, which refiected the rays of 
the sun so as to be oppressively warm. 

“ IsnT it curious, Mrs. Trevena, though we sit mider a 
wall of snow we are almost ‘ baked alive ^ — as my little 
monkeys in Kentucky would say?^^ And stretching out his 
hand, he washed down the leg of chicken with a mouthful 
of snow, declaring it was “ not bad drink after all.^^ 

“ Does this huge white wall never melt?^^ 

“Never entirely, ma'am (his invariable “ma'am" 
and “sir," were so anti-English). “We are just on the 
verge of the snow-line — perpetual snow. And yet, just 
look at that patch of blue gentian — isn't it lovely? Are 
you a botanist, Mr. Trevena?" 

“Oh no, but my wife is. At least, she has what I call a 
speaking acquaintance with almost every flower that grows. 


KING AKTHUR. 


19 


She knows their separate faces as well as those of the babies 
of our parish — which seem to me all alike/'’ 

Not a bit alike, when you are a woman and love 
them,'’'’ said the wife, smiling. 

“ You seem very fond of children, Mrs. Trevena.'^ 

‘‘Yes,^^ she answered quietly — so quietly that the good 
doctor, feeling as if he could have bitten his tongue off for 
the remark, rose and proposed a saunter a little higher up 
the mountain. 

‘ ‘ Decidedly. And my wife can rest here. She never 
minds being left alone. I teil her it is because she finds 
her own company so pleasant, and no wonder!'’'’ added he, 
with affectionate courtesy. 

‘‘ She'’s a trump,'’ ^ said the American — rough, candid, 
and kindly, as they walked away. 

AVhen they were out of sight and hearing of Mrs. Tre- 
vena, he suddenly stopped, and stuck his stick violently 
into a fast melting mass of snow. 

‘‘ It^s no use, sir, I can^t stand it any longer; I must tell 
somebody.^-’ 

“ Tell whatr^^ said the placid clergyman, very much 
surprised. 

“ Something which I have been expecting your wife 
would find out every day, but she has not done so. Ma- 
dame has kept the secret well. I have often wished I could 
tell it to Mrs. Trevena, who has such capital common sense 
and right feeling — womanly feeling. Some women seem as 
if they had none at all; the fashionable life or the public 
life — Lord knows which, for I donT! — has taken all ordi- 
nary fiesh and blood out of them. It does sometimes.'’^ 

Mr. Trevena listened to this tirade with a perplexity 
which his politeness vainly tried to hide. ‘‘ If there is any- 
thing you would like to confide in me — anything wherein I 
could be of use — according to my sacred profession. 

Mine has its sacredness, too, if people only knew it. 
Many a troublesome secret have I kept; but this one — 


20 


KING ARTHUK. 


can^t keep it — I won^t keep it; for, in a sense, it^s like 
conniving at a murder. The massacre of the innocents I 
call it-^and so I told the woman. 

“ What woman asked Mr. Trevena, now thoroughly 
aroused and uneasy — so uneasy, that he looked instinctive- 
ly back at the little dark figure sitting motionless under 
the snow- wall, his wife, with whom he was accustomed to 
halve all his anxieties. 

‘‘ No — donT tell her — not till we get back to the hotel. 
You may then; for, after all, she will understand it better 
than you, or than any man among us all. 

And then he detailed how his mysterious patient, on 
whose account he had lingered these five days at Ander- 
matt, was a lady — the lady with the mulatto servant who 
had crossed the St. Gothard the same day as themselves, 
and that very night had suddenly given birth to a child, 
with no help except the old woman, and no preparation for 
her infant except a few clothes borrowed from the kind 
landlady of the hotel — who, at the mother’s urgent en- 
treaty, had kept the event a secret from everybody. 

“ But she insisted on fetching me, as I spoke their 
language — ^both the black and the white woman are, I am 
sorry to say, American born. I told them in good plain 
English that they were both fools — or worse — to have at- 
tempted such a journey. It was a miracle that the mother 
and child survived — the child nearly was dead — and when 
I told her it lived, her first word was, that she was ‘ very 
sorry!’ A mother, indeed — a brute! No — any brute beast 
would have been more of a mother. ” 

“ Perhaps,” suggested Mr. Trevena, with a faint old- 
bachelor-like blush — ‘ ‘ perhaps she had some very strong 
reason for wishing it dead.” 

‘‘ Illegitimacy, you mean,” interrupted the point-blank 
doctor. “ No, I believe not. She had a wedding-ring on 
her finger, and in her delirium she talked of ‘ my goose of 
a husband ’ and ‘ my horrid little brats at home. ’ There- 


KING ARTHUE. 


21 


fore, I conclude she has both a home and a husband. 
Though why she should have gone wandering about the 
world in this insane manner is more than I can tell. Both 
she and her servant are absolutely silent. 

“ About how old is sher^^ 

“Just under forty, I should say. Very handsome still — 
in a sort of way. Has had four children, but declares she 
‘ hated every one of them the minute they were born. ^ 
Did you ever hear of such a woman?'’ ^ 

Mr. Trevena shook his head helplessly. “ Well, my dear 
doctor, what can I do? Would you like me, in my clerical 
capacity, to pay her a visit ?^^ 

“ Bless my life — no! She would laugh you to scorn — 
she laughs at everything serious, except when she gets into 
her tragedy-fits, when she rants for all the world like a 
play-actor — or actress. 

“ Perhaps she is an actress. 

“ May be — I never thought of that. But I have not 
thought much about her, except as a ‘ case,'’ till to-day. It 
was hard worl^ to keep her alive at all — or the baby either 
— ^for she refused to suckle it. She said she wanted it to 
die; and if it had not been for a blessed old Nanny-goat of 
madame^s sheM have had her wish by this time. Now I 
think he'’ll do, for he is quite healthy; and such a fine, fat 
little fellow. Many a one of your childless English dukes — 
your ‘ noble families •’ that dwindle down to nothing and 
die out — would give his eyes for such a son and heir. 

“A strange st^ry,^^ said Mr. Trevena thoughtfully. 
“ May I tell my wife? She would be so much interested.'’^ 
“Yes, and ask her to advise me: a woman — that is, a 
sensible woman — often leaps by instinct to the right, when 
a man with his long-headed wisdom goes swithering to and 
fro, till he finds himself quite at sea — as I own I am. That 
hori’ible creature! What do you think she asked of me last 
night? To take away her child and leave it at the nearest 
foundling hospital — or by the road-side if I chose, for some 


22 


KING AKTHUK. 


charitable soul to pick it up! She doesn^t care what be- 
comes of it, so that she gets rid of it. She would sell it, 
she declares, for she wants money badly — only a baby is a 
drug in the market — a commodity no one cares to buy!^^ 

“ What a wretch! — oh, dear, oh, dear!^^ murmured the 
hoiTified and perplexed clergyman. “ Surely she must be 
mad.^^ 

“Not at all; she is as sane as I am, a capable, clever, 
healthy woman. She must have a constitution of iron to 
have struggled through these few days; and she is doing- 
very well now. She talks of continuing her journey im- 
mediately. 

“Whereto? Has she no friends?^^ 

“None, she declares, except her ‘ fool of a husband,^ 
whom she left six months ago, and has scarcely heard of 
since. She refuses to give her name or address. So — what 
can I do? She is my country-woman, and after all, a 
woman — or I would do nothing at all. She expects me to 
give her an answer to-night. 

“ About whatr^^ * 

“ About the foundling hospital. There are such in Swit- 
zerland, I know; but I canH present myself there with an 
unknown new-born baby in my arms — a decent father of a 
family like me. And if I leave the child with its mother, 
very likely she’ll murder it, or neglect it till it dies — which 
IS as bad as murder.” 

“ But there is the mulatto woman; she may have a heart 
in her bosom if the mother has none.” 

“ My dear sir, had you lived as long as I have in our 
Southern States, you would know that our niggers have big 
hearts, but mighty little heads, and no consciences to speak 
of. If that woman told her servant, who is a paid slavre, 
to lie down and be walked upon, she’d do it; and if she 
bade her throw the child on the back of the fire, she’ll do 
it also, I’m only too glad she hasn’t done it already, when 


KIKG AETHUR. 


23 


it began to cry — it has cried incessantly ever since it was 
bom — and no wonder/^ 

‘‘Poor little soul!^^ said Mr. Trevena, roused into un- 
wonted interest. He had lived so long the life of a. bachelor 
and a book-worm that he rarely troubled himself much about 
external things — human things— but left all that to his 
wife. “ I think we had better tell Mrs. Trevena; she will 
be sure to know what you ought to do."*^ 

“Yes — but not yet. Don^t spoil her pleasure. Look! 
I am sure she is enjoying herself. 

“ My wife has the faculty of enjoying everything. 

And indeed it seemed so, though just now her enjoyment 
was no wonder. Few could have seen unmoved those great 
fields of snow, rising upward into gigantic peaks, white as 
no fuller on earth could whiten them — ^like the robes of 
the righteous described in .Revelations. The whole scene, 
in its silence, grandeur, and dazzling brightness, was liker 
heaven than earth. One^s petty mortal life, with its trivial 
cares and foolish joys, sunk, dwarfed into nothingness, be- 
fore the majesty of those everlasting hills, covered with 
perpetual snow. It was the nearest image we can imagine, 
in this poor changing earth, of that Eternity from whence 
we came and into which v/e go. 

She sat gazing with an expression full of peace, though 
the traces of tears were on her cheeks — so rapt, that she 
never noticed the approach of the two men. 

“ Look at her,^’ said the American, with honest admira- 
tion written on his shrewd brown face. “ By George! how 
pretty she must have been when she was young. 

“ She is pretty now — at least to me,^^ replied the En- 
glishman with dignity. “My dear Susannah, are you 
rested? Is it not time we were going home?^’ 

“ ‘ Going to hum,^ as we say — or as you English say that 
we say — often a very different thing, ” observed Dr. Frank- 
lin, trying hard to recover his equanimity and good humor. 

“ Which means going to our hotel; not a bad substitute 


24 


KIKG AETHUR. 


for home. Madame is very kind. But oh! Austin, I shall 
be glad to be once again really ‘ at home!^ We must try 
to move on to-morrow. So adieu — forever, most likely — 
you beautiful San Gottardo!^^ 

Smiling she rose, collected the fragments of lunch. 

They will do for these little lads who were selling edel- 
weiss and alpenrosen beyond Hospenthal,’^ and joined her 
companions in the carriage. 

Both Mr. Trevena and Dr. Franklin were very silent on 
the homeward road; but Mrs. Trevena talked and smiled 
rather more than usual to make up for it. And they ac- 
quiesced in, or at any rate did not oppose, her plan of going 
down the next day to Fluelen, and thence on to Lucerne. 

So this will be our last night in the TJrseren Thai; for, 
if you go back to America as you intend, doctor, we are 
none of us ever likely to be at Andermatt again. 

“ I earnestly hope I never may be!^^ said Dr. Franklin, 
as reaching the hotel he looked at his watch. Half an 
hour past my time. Well, it doesnT matter — only — what 
a hullabaloo she^ll make. Youdl remember, sir? And 
I^’ll see you again at the table d’hote — after you have told 
your wife.^^ 

“ Told me what?^^ 

‘‘ You neednT be alarmed, ma^am. Take a quiet even- 
ing walk — lucky comfortable couple that you are! — and 
your husband will explain it. Bless us — what a sunset!— 
Why did Heaven make the outside world so beautiful, and 
the people in it so — But I beg your pardon, Mrs. Trevena 
—not all people — not all."’^ 

He took oif his hat to her with rough respect, and disap- 
peared toward a small dependence only used when the hotel 
was full, on the other side of the road. 

Up that road, shortly afterward, the English couple 
might have been seen strolling, arm-in-arm, sometimes 
even hand-in-hand, for those long-divided years had matle 
them almost child-like in their wedded happiness now. 


KIl^G ARTHUR. 


25 


They cast a glance at the de'pendence as they passed, but 
nothing was visible: so they slowly disappeared along the 
level road towards that wonderful Devil’s Bridge — ^the chief 
sight of Andermatt; whence they did not return till the 
table dhbte dinner had already begun. 

It was a long walk — and a momentous one — ^perhaps the 
most momentous they had ever taken in all their placid 
lives. When he met them at the dinner-table. Dr. Frank- 
lin was quite sure Mr. Trevena had told his wife ever3dhing. 
She was very silent — even for her; she eat little; and be- 
tween the many courses by which the Swiss hotels so cleverly 
contrive to make a palatable something out of almost noth- 
ing, she fell into long reveries. Still, there was a new 
brightness — a pleasure amounting to rapture — ^in her eyes, 
which made her look quite young, and fairly startled the 
good doctor. 

Dinner over, she drew him aside. “ My husband has 
given me your message. I hardly know what to advise. 
But first, may l go and see that poor woman?” 

“ ‘ Poor’ woman, indeed! and you want to go and see 
her? I knew it! — just like you. But, my dear madame, 
you can’t. She is madder — or badder — than ever. All 
her talk is how to get rid of the child. My impression is if 
you went to see her she would shut the door in your face. ” 

“ Try, nevertheless. I might do something — say some- 
thing. We are both women, and ” — with a quiver of the 
lips — mothers — at least I have been a mother. Perhaps, 
poor thing! her head is a little wrong.” 

Not a bit of it, unless we adopt the theory which some 
of my profession have started, that all badness is madness. 
A very comfortable doctrine, and then nobody need be 
punished for anything. But, ma’am, if there is a thing 
true in this world it is that text, ‘ Be sure your sin will find 
you out.’ As I told her only to-night, you can’t go against 
nature, but nature will have her revenge some day. How- 
ever, that’s no affair of mine. ” 


26 


KING AKTHUE. 


“ Perhaps not, yet let us try. Go and ask her if she will 
see me.^^ 

Very well, ma^am. 

During his absence, Mrs. Trevena sat alone — at least 
practically so, for her husband, according to old habit, had 
taken a book out of his pocket and become absorbed there- 
in. Susannah, who did not read very much, was content 
to watch the great white mountains melting away in the 
twilight; and think — and think. 

‘‘IPs no use!^^ said Dr. Prankhn, returning. “I be- 
lieve she is mad — quite mad. She will see nobody. She 
says the best kindness anybody could show her would be to 
take away the child; that children have been her bane and 
nuisance all her life, and she wants no more of them. 
AVhen I suggested that He who sent them might require 
them at her hand, she laughed in my face. I think she 
believes in neither God nor devil. 

“ Poor soul! Could you not find out her friends?’^ 

“ I wish I could, but I have not the slightest clew. I 
can get nothing out of her, or her servant either— except 
that she has been living for six months in Italy. 

Mrs. Trevena thought a minute. “ Do you think it 
possible she may be the Italian prima-donna who ran away 
from Milan?- To an actress or singer children might be a 
hinderance — if she had no motherly heart. ^ 

“ Yes — yes,^^ said the doctor, meditating. “You women 
are twice as sharp as we. But she is American. Still, she 
may have passed under an Italian name. She declares no 
power on earth shall make her confess her own.^^ 

“ Poor soul!’ ’ said Susannah again. “ She has husband, 
children, home — and she hates and files from them all. 
How much she is to be pitied!” 

“ Pitied!” cried the doctor almost angrily. “ Mrs. 
Trevena, I think you would speak a good word for the devil 
himself! And truly, if there ever was a she-devil, it’s that 
woman! I wonder what Mrs. Franklin would say to her! 


KING AKTHUE. 


27 


But I know what she^d do — she^d take home the little one, 
and I should have eleven young shavers to bring up instead 
of ten. She^d make me adopt it— as we can and often do 
in America. 

Mrs. Trevena did not answer at first — then she said 
gently, Since I can not see the mother, do you think, you 
could manage for me to see the baby?^^ 

This was not quite easy, for madame, with a creditable 
dread of scandal in her hotel, had managed so cleverly that 
no one but herself and the American doctor even knew of 
the existence of the hapless, unwelcome babe. And only 
after nightfall, when the inmates had all retired, would she 
consent that it should be brought for a minute or two to 
the door of the dependance, wrapped in a shawl, and 
carried in Dr. Franklin^ s arms. 

Mrs. Trevena took it softly in hers, and pressed to her 
bosom the tiny red, puckered face. 

It is a boy, you say? Mine was a boy too. He lived 
just six hours. It was only a murmur, but the kind- 
hearted Kentuckian heard it — and understood. 

It^s a fine child, ma^’am; healthy and strong. Ko — it 
wonT wake. Its mother has given it some sleeping stuff 
— she will do this, though I tell her she might as well give 
it poison. SheTl kill it some day, if it isnT taken away 
from her. She says, new-born brats donT matter — they’re 
only half alive. You might drown them like kittens — and 
no harm done.’^ 

Mrs. Trevena did not answer — perhaps scarcely heard. 
Evidently her heart was f ull. , She pressed her cheek, her 
lips, with more than tenderness — passion — to the little 
sleeping face. 

“ If mine had only lived! I had him but six hours, and 
yet — I can never forget him. ” And then either her tears, 
now fast falling, or the unsteady hold of her trembling 
hands, woke the child; who gave a little cry — that helpless 
infant wail, to some women so irritating,^ to others the un- 


28 


KING AETHUK. 


failing key which unlocks every corner of the true motherly 
heart. 

I must take it back/^ said Dr. Franklin. 

‘‘Oh no — ^no — ^let me have it for just five minutes more — 
for the night perhaps — Ifil take care of it. Any woman of 
common sense can manage a baby. Let me have it, 
doctor.-’^ 

“ I can^t/^ replied the doctor gravely. “ Ma^am, you 
forget. What would Mr. Trevena say.?^^ 

Mrs. Trevena resisted no more. She resigned the child, 
and then stood with her empty hands tightly folded, and 
her eyes, tearless now, fixed on the stars; which treading 
their silent courses seemed so far away from human crav- 
ings and human woes. Perhaps she saw them — perhaps 
not, but there was a light in her eyes as bright as stars. 

She said not a word but “ good-night and thank you 
to Dr. Franklin, when, having taken her across the road to 
the hotel he left her at her own room door; with a hearty 
grip of the hand — for he, too, honest man! had been not 
unmoved. 

“ Poor little brat! I wonder what will be the end of it. 
Well! I guess the Lord sometimes makes things mighty 
unlevel in this world of ours. Perhaps He does it that we 
may try to put them straight ourselves. We often can — if 
we see our way. Whew! I wish the Lord would help me 
to see mine. 

And the good fellow — who had a habit of referring to 
“ the Lord pretty frequently, not with any irreverence, 
but in a fashion rather starthng to British ears — went off 
to his bed, whistling, and slept the sleep of the contented 
and the just. 

So did Mr. Trevena — in fact his wife found him asleep 
when she came in, and did not waken him. But she her- 
self lay awake till dawn. 


KU^G ARTHUR. 


2d 


CHAPTER IL 

Next morning Mr. and Mrs. Trevena sat over their early 
cafe, by their bedroom fire, welcome even in June at 
Andermatt — a comfortable couple, placid and loving; for, 
before returning to his book, he stooped and kissed her 
affectionately. 

‘‘Youfil be busy over your packing, my dear, for we 
really will start to-morrow, if I get the letters and some 
nioney to-day. Doctor Eranklin vdll share our carriage to 
Eluelen; fie can surely leave his patient now. By the bye, 
did you see the baby last night 

“ Yes;"*^ and coming closer she laid her hand on her hus- 
band^s arm, and her head on his shoulder. ‘‘ Can you 
give me a few minutes, Austin, my dear?^^ 

“ A hundred if you like, my darling. Is it to speak 
about the journey? Well, we shall soon be safe at home, 
and oh! how glad we shall be. 

Very glad. But — it is an empty home to come back 

to."" 

How do you mean? — Oh yes — I see. My poor Susan- 
nah! You should not have gone and looked at that baby."" 

He spoke very tenderly — more so than might have been 
expected from his usually formal and absent manner. She 
gave one little sob, then choked it down, put her arms 
round his neck and kissed him several times. An outsider 
might have smiled at the caresses of these two elderly peo- 
ple; but love never grows old, and they had loved one 
another all their lives. 

Don"t mind my crying, Austin.- Indeed, I am happy, 
quite happy. Yesterday, when I sat under the wall of 
snow, and looked at the beautiful sights all round me, I 
thought how thankful I ought to be — how contented with 
my lot — ^how blessed in my home and my husband. And 


30 


KING ARTHUK. 


I ceased to be angry with God for having taken away my 
baby/" ^ 

“ Poor Susannah — poor Susannah!"" 

‘‘ No, rich Susannah! And so, I determined to grieve 
no more — to try and be happy without a child. But 
now — "" 

“ Well, my darling?"" 

“ Austin, I think God sometimes teaches us to renounce 
a thing, and when we have quite renounced it, gives it back 
to us, in some other way. "" 

“ What do you mean?"" 

She tried to speak — failed more than once — and then 
said, softly and solemnly, “ I believe God has sent that 
child, whom its mother does not care for, to me — ^to us. 
Will you let me have it?’" 

Intense astonishment and bewilderment was written on 
every line of Mr. Trevena’s grave countenance. 

‘‘ God bless my soul! Susannah, what can you be think- 
ing of?"" 

I have been thinking of this and nothing else, ever since 
you told me what Doctor Franklin told you. From that 
minute I felt the child was meant for me. Its mother 
throws it away; she does not care a straw for it — whilst I 
— oh Austin — you don"t know — you don’t know!"" 

She pressed her hands upon her childless breast, as if to 
smother down something that was almost agony. 

“ No, my* dear,” Mr. Trevena answered dryly; “ I can’t 
be expected to know. And if you were not such a very 
sensible woman I should say that you don’t know either. 
How can respectable old folk like us encumber ourselves 
with a baby — a waif and a stray — a poor little creature 
that we know nothing on earth about?"" 

But God does,"" she answered solemnly. “ Listen, 
Austin. When I was a very little girl I picked up a bit of 
sweet-william — trodden under foot and nearly dead. My 
playfellows laughed at me, and said it would never grow; 


KING ARTHUE. 


31 


but I planted it and it did grow — ^it grew into the finest 
root in my garden. An omen, I think; for I have done 
the same thing several times afterward in the course of my 
life, and — my sweet-williams always grew ! Let me try one 
more. 

My dear, you would coax a bird off a bush. But what 
on earth do you want to do? To buy a baby? The woman 
will not give it — she wished to sell it, you know. Twenty 
pounds is her price. I really havenT that much about 
me.^^ 

“ DonT jest, dear. And when he saw the expression 
on his wife^s face, Mr. Trevena felt it was no jesting matter. 
He had ever been a man of one idea, or rather of two ideas 
— ^his books and his Susannah; every corner of his heart was 
filled up by either the one or the other. Perhaps he had 
felt a natural pang when his hope of fatherhood was 
quenched, but the regret soon died out, and his life became 
complete as before. Love of offspring is with men more a 
pride than an affection; at least till the children are intelli- 
gent human beings. The passionate craving which made 
the Hebrew mother cry, “ Give me children or else I die,^^ 
is to them absolutely miknown. Nor, as a rule, does a man 
take much interest in any children not his own. But with 
a woman it is different. 

Susannah sat down, for she was trembling too much to 
stand. Austin saw it, and his heart melted. 

“ Come, donT fret, my love, and we will consider the 
matter. But — think of the trouble a baby would be. 

“ I will take it upon myself. I know I can.'’^ 

“ Then, again, our income is so small — too small to bring 
up and provide for a child. 

We should have had to do it for our own, had he 
lived. 

“ Then — ^there is my brother Hal. 

Mrs. Trevena ^s sweet face hardened a little — it could not 
but harden. This scamp of an elder brother had been to 


32 


KIKG ARTHUR. 


the younger one a torment, a disgrace, ever since their col- 
lege days; also a ceaseless drain, hindering his prospects 
and delaying his marriage. Family pride — if scarcely could 
be called family affection — ^had prevented the good clergy- 
man from throwing off this horrible incubus, until he got a 
living and married his Susannah, whose strength had in 
some degree counteracted his weakness, taught him to say 
No, and proved to him that to sustain a bad man in his 
badness, even though he be your own flesh and blood, is not 
a virtue, but a weakness. 

“ T thought we had done with Hal when you paid his 
passage out to Australia. ” 

‘‘ Ay, but he may come back again — he often does,^^ said 
the husband, with a weary look. He has turned up, you 
know, from all the ends of the earth, to worry me as much 
as ever.^^ 

‘‘But that was when you had not me beside you. 
Now— 

“ I know — I know. Would that I had had you beside 
me years ago!^^ 

As perhaps, but for Hal, and a certain weakness, not sel- 
dom combined with an affectionate nature, he might have 
had. But his wife said nothing — except to notice that Dr. 
Franklin was walking outside. 

“ Shall we call him in and speak to him?^^ 

“ About the baby? Have you set your heart upon it, 
Susannah? Am I not enough for you? Would you be like 
Hannah, the wife of Elkanah?^^ 

“ Hannah prayed, and God sent her her little Samuel. 
Who knows but that He may in His own mysterious way 
have sent me mine?^^ 

She spoke in a whisper — solemn and tender. Her voice 
was so entreating, her expression so rapt — as if she saw 
further than any but herself could see — that the good kind 
husband resisted no more. Though he did not always un- 
derstand her, he had an instinct that whatever liis Susannal) 


KmCr ARTHUR. 


,33 

did was sure to be right. It was always difficult to him to 
say No to anybody, but to say No to her was quite beyond 
his power. 

“ Well — well, we will at least consider the matter. Let 
us do as you say — call in Dr. Franklin and talk it over. 

The talk lasted a long time, without eliciting any new 
facts or coming to any satisfactory conclusion. Dr. Frank- 
lin was less surprised at Mrs. Trevena^s quixotic idea, as 
her husband called it, than an Englishman would have 
been; he said the adoption of children was a not uncommon 
thing in America. 

‘‘ Indeed, I have often advised it as an absolute duty to 
rich and childless people, who wished to make themselves 
happy with young life about them, and avoid a selfish, use- 
less old age. A child in the house helps to educate every- 
body in it. Not that Mrs. Trevena needs much education, 
added he, with blunt courtesy, “ but it would make her 
happy and do her good; and, as the Bible says, she would 
‘ save a soul alive. ^ 

What! save a child by taking it from its parents? That 
is not according to the Bible,^'’ answered the perplexed 
clergyman. 

I am sorry to say, sir, that there are lots of diildren in 
this world who can only be saved by taking them from their 
parents. This poor little wretch is one. He is a fine, 
healthy, perfect child — splendid physiological and phreno- 
logical developments — might make a grand fellow, if any- 
body could protect him from the woman that bore him, 
who doesnT deserve the blessing of a child. Your wife 
does. I think with her — that the Lord sent it to her.'’^ 

Mrs. Trevena lifted up to him grateful eyes, but said 
nothing. 

“ It seems so ridiculous, and yet so horrible — the idea of 
bujdng a child, said Mr. Trevena. ‘‘ Besides, we should 
have all the responsibility of it, and no legal rights what- 
ever. 

« 


34 


KING AETHUK. 


“There we have the advantage of you/’ The Ken- 
tuckian drew himself up to his full long lengthy and spoke 
■ — more nasally than ever, it must be owned — but with an 
honest warmth that neutralized all national peculiarities. 
“ In my country, where every man stands on his own feet, 
where we have neither the curse of primogeniture nor the 
burden of hereditary rank, any respectable person, or any 
married couple, agreeing together, can legally adopt a 
child.” 

Mrs. Trevena looked up eagerly. “ How?” 

“ By presenting a petition to one of our courts of law, 
and after due examination of the parents, if alive and de- 
serving, and of the child, if old enough, obtaining a decree 
of adoption, which is called ‘ the muniment of title. ’ This 
makes it the adopting parents’ lawful heir, and the real 
parents have no more right over it, which is, in some cases, 
a great blessing. It was in two, I know of — one an orphan, 
the other worse. Both children were adopted — and both 
saved — as I only wish somebody would save this poor little 
soul. It’s a great mystery, Mrs. Trevena, but sometimes 
the Lord seems to send children to those who don’t deserve 
them, and not to those that do. Many miserable little 
creatures have I seen, who might have been seized and 
saved, body and soul — as I managed to save those two — 
But I beg your pardon. I go talking on — interrupting 
your husband at his letters — for I see he has got them at 
last.” 

There were only two — but evidently important — for Mr. 
Trevena had dropped out of the conversation at sight of 
them, and sat poring over the first one; till coming to the 
end he uttered something almost like a cry. His wife came 
to him. 

“ What is the matter?” 

“ Oh, nothing. Only Hal wanting money — as usual. 
And why, do you think?” There was a mixture of the pa- 
thetic and the ludicrous in Mr. Trevena’s face as he looked, 


KIKG AKTHUK. 


35 


up. He is married! — actually married this time — ^to a 
girl twenty years younger than himself. 

Mrs. Trevena^s anxious face grew hard and stern. It 
is the maddest — not to say the baddest — thing he has ever 
done. Who is she?^^ 

‘‘An Australian — colonial born. HaFs ^vife! and we 
know nothing on earth about her. 

“ And she probably knows nothing on earth about him 
— which is worse. Poor soul! 

Here Dr. Franklin, feeling he had unawares come upon 
a family skeleton, was discreetly slipping away. 

“ Stay a minute, said Mrs. Trevena, “ if you will par- 
don this discussion of our family correspondence. Austin, 
open the other letter. It may be our money from home, 
and then we can arrange with Dr. Franklin for our depart- 
ure to-morrow.'’^ 

There was a sad sort of resignation in her tone, as of a 
woman who has all her days been accustomed to give up 
everything she most cared for, and make the best of what 
was left — eating the crumbs and not the festival meats of 
Mfe. But no one knows what Fate is bringing. The other 
letter her husband opened listlessly — and almost dropped 
out of his hands with a look of amazement and joy. 

“ Susannah — oh, Susannah! it has come at last!^^ 

“What, dearr^ 

“ The living — that college living I have been hoping for 
these twenty years! It is offered me now. No more pov- 
erty — no more struggle. My Susannah will be a well-to- 
do woman for the rest of her days. Thank God — thank 
God!^^ 

Quite overcome, Mr. Trevena sat down, covering his 
eyes with his hand. His wife, forgetful of the stranger^s 
presence, knelt down beside him in silence. By their deep 
joy the doctor could plumb the depth of their past suffer- 
ing, hitherto so well concealed. He walked to the window, 
liuwilling to walk (juite away, and contemplated Juno, the 


36 


KING AKTHUK. 


big St. Bernard, with three gigantic puppies gamboling 
round her. 

“ A mother of sons is a fine sight, be it brute or wom- 
an, V said he to himself, apropos of nothing; and gazed si- 
lently on till he felt a gentle touch on his arm. 

You are so kind — you will rejoice with us. My hus- 
band has just got a new living — the very prettiest rectory 
in all Cornwall. We are not such poor people now, as we 
told you we were this morning. 

“ The Lord be thanked! His ways are not so unlevel 
after all, if one only waits to see, said the Kentuckian, 
with his own rough but unmistakable devoutness, as he 
^ shook hands with both his friends and congratulated them 
sincerely. And now,^ ^ said he, with his usual directness 
— “ about the child. 

What child?^^ said Mr. Trevena absently. 

‘‘ The baby your wife wants to adopt, and I hope she 
may. ITl help her to do it, with your permission. You 
can afford now to give yourselves a soh^and heir. 

‘‘ But — Susannah, what would Hal say?^^ 

There is a saying that ‘Hhe worm will turn. Mrs. 
Trevena had never been a “ worm;^^ but she had been a 
much-enduring woman — till now. It was the crisis of her 
patience. Endurance changed into resistance. She rose 
up, and even Dr. Eranklin was startled by the fire in her 
eyes. 

‘‘ I think, husband, it does not matter two straws what 
Hal says. He has spent all his own patrimony and yours. 
You have maintained him for years; now he has chosen to 
marry, and it is the maddest if not the wickedest thing he 
ever did in his life — which is saying a good deal. He has 
no further claim upon you — upon us. Let him go. 

Barely did Mrs. Trevena speak so much or so fiercely. 
That last Let him goF’ fell hard and sharp as the knife 
which has to cut off something corrupt, obnoxious — and 
does it, with a righteous remorselessness better than any 


KING AKTHUK. 


37 


feeble pity, which is often only another name for self -ease. 
Even as there are many people, who are benevolent only to 
give themselves pleasure, so there are many more who are 
merciful only to save themselves pain. 

She is right, said Dr. Franklin, dropping his bdny 
hand heavily on the table as a sort of practical amen to the 
discussion. ‘‘ Since you have let me into your family se- 
crets, excuse me, sir, if I use the freedom of saying, your 
wife is right. There are limits, even to the claims of flesh 
and blood. Let your brother go his way; and do you take 
the child which the Lord sends you, bring it up as your son, 
and trust to His making it a real son to you both in your 
old age. Nobody can look ahead; but at any rate you will 
make your wife happy, and, as I said, you will save a soul 
alive. 

He waxed preternaturally eloquent, as he stood, honest 
man! his long lean figure drawn up to its full height; his 
arms folded and his keen eyes glittering — was it with that 
tender pity which only the strong can feel? or the generous 
indignation that only the righteous can show? Any how, 
liis words, so cordially in earnest, had their effect. 

Mr. Trevena turned to his wife. Susannah, do you 
really wish this?^’ 

‘‘ Yes, Austin, I do.^^ • 

‘‘ Then I consent. For my wife^s sake. Dr. Franklin. 

And for His sake,^^ added Susannah, with an upward 
glance of her sweet eyes — eyes that had in them the perpet- 
ual light from Heaven, which a man might thankfully and 
safely follow all his life through. “ He says to us. Take 
this child and nurse it— for MeJ^ 

‘‘And now,^"said the doctor, clearing his throat, and 
sticking his hat fiercely down over his brows-— “ ITl go and 
see about this business— the oddest bit of business I ever 
came across. IVe bought a good many things — but I 
never yet bought a baby. M hat form of receipt will the 
woman want, I wonder? And she must sign her name to 


38 


KmG AKTHUE. 


it — whicli will let us know what her name is — for I haven 
the slightest idea. By Jove! she^s a queer customer; the 
most unwomanly woman I ever had to do with. Still — I^’ll 
face her. Here goes!^^ 

He gave his soft felt hat another bang, which left it 
crooked on his head; and soon they saw him striking otf to 
the dependance. They felt that, spite of his address and 
Irusqiierie, if there was ever a man fit to be trusted with a 
troublesome business, and certain to carry it through, it 
was the long Kentuckian. 

Hour after hour the day went by. Husband and wife 
did not talk much; neither was given to talking — their 
long-parted lives had been too solitary; besides they under- 
stood one another so well that discussion was unnecessary. 
Even at this great crisis, when both had plenty to think 
about, they kept a mutual tender silence; and as they took 
their quiet daily walk together, spoke of the mountains, the 
fiowers, and all other things about them which they were 
accustomed to notice and take pleasure in — the placid 
pleasure in nature ^s blessings which grows rather than 
decreases with years. But they never once referred either 
to Hal and his marriage, or to the transaction which Dr. 
Eranklin was engaged in at the dependance close by. 

As they passed it on their return it was as silent as death; 
the doors and windows closed, as had been the case all 
along. Mrs. Trevena gave a little sigh. But her husband 
never seemed to notice anything. 

The glowing J une day was beginning to melt into the 
long twilight of the mountains, behind whose tops the sun 
disappears so ^oon ; when Dr. Franklin^s knock was heart--" 
at their door. Mrs. Trevena opened it with an eager face, 
in which hope seemed to struggle with patience — ^the pa- 
tience of a woman long accustomed to disappointment. 

The shrewd doctor saw this at once, and held out his 
hand with a smile. 

‘‘ Well, ma^am, congratulate me. I think I^ve man- 


KIKCf ARTHUR. 


39 


aged it — and her. But she is the queerest fish; a ' woman 
of genius/, she calls herself, and not to be judged like other 
women. Bless my soul!— if she is a woman of genius I^m 
glad Mrs. Franklin isnH! But to our business. You hear 
me, Mr. Trevena:^^ 

“ Yes — ^yes,"’^ said the good clergyman, closing his book, 
but looking rather bored as he did so. 

‘‘ This lady — queer as she is, I am sure she is a lady, 
well-educated and all that — says you may have her baby 
for twenty pounds English money, paid down; and that 
then ‘ the sooner you take the brat away the better.^ Those 
were her words. She promises never to trouble you about 
it — she doesnT even want to hear your name — ^which, in- 
deed, I have taken the precaution not to tell her — and she 
refuses to tell you hers. She says you may call the boy 
anything you like. ‘ He^s the image of his father — and 
that^s why I hate him!^ she said one day. Oh, she^s an aw- 
ful woman. 

‘‘ Is he — the color rose in Mrs. Trevena^s matron cheek, 
but she forced herself to ask the question — “ is he — do you 
think — his father^s lawful child 

I conclude so. She speaks sometimes of ‘ my fool of 
a husband,-’ and ^ the little wretches at home. ^ But, as I 
told you, I know absolutely nothing. You might as well 
squeeze water out of a stone as any common-sense truth out 
of that woman. She is a perfectly abnormal specimen of 
her sex. 

Perhaps she is mad.’^ 

‘‘ Not a bit of it; perfectly sound in mind and body — has 
made a wonderfully quick recovery. A shrewd person, too 
— wide-awake to her own interests. If you want the baby 
to-morrow, she insists upon having the twenty pounds paid 
down to-night. 

Mr. Trevena looked perplexed, and turned appealingly 
to his wife— as he seemed in the habit of doing in most 
emergencies. 


40 


KIKG ARTHUK. 


“ We have not got the money,^^ she said, simply. ‘‘We 
have hardly any money left; hut our remittances will be 
sure to come to-morrow. If I might have the baby — 

“ I wish to heaven you had it now, ma’am — for I don’t 
want to have to give evidence to the Swiss government in a 
case of child-desertion, or child-murder. However, I’ll go 
over again and see what can be done. There is the table 
(Vliote bell. Shall we go down to dinner?” 

They dined, rather silently, amidst the clatter of a party 
of Germans who ha^ just come up from Lucerne, and were 
passing on over the St. Gothard next day; and who, with 
characteristic economy, appealed to the “ rich English ” to 
take their carriage back, and to save them the expense of 
paying for the return journey. 

“We might have done it, had our money come in time,” 
said Mr. Trevena. “lam sure I don’t want to stay a day 
longer in Andermatt than I can help. ” 

“ Nor I,” added Dr. Eranklin — then catching Mrs. 
Trevena’s anxious eyes — “ But I shall make it a point of 
honor — medical honor — to see my patient safe through. 
Not that she is a paying patient, though she did one day 
offer me a diamond ring — I am almost sorry I refused it, 
or it might have been some clew. But no!” — continued 
he in a whisper to Mrs. Trevena — “ Mother — take your 
son — if I can get him for you — and forget he ever had any 
mother besides yourself. ” 

Once again the childless woman’s eyes flashed upon the 
goolS doctor a look of passionate gratitude. Then she rose, 
and went and sat patiently in the window recess of the now 
empty salle-a-mangeVy watching the full round moon, risen 
long since, but only now appearing over the tops of the 
mountains — ^like a joy found late in life, yet none the less 
a complete and perfect joy. 

Before long she heard Dr. Franklin’s long striding step 
and cheery voice. 

“ Well, ma’am, I’ve done it at last. You will get your 


KIKG ARTHUR. 


41 


baby. Not to-night — she ‘ can^t be bothered ^ to-night, 
she says — but to-morrow morning. Also, I\e spoken to 
madame (whom I had to take into our confidence, for she 
threatened to turn adrift ‘ Madame Anonyme, ^ as she 
contemptuously calls her, within twelve hours), and she 
will sell you the clothes she lent, and the goat; or get you 
a nourrice from the next canton, so that you can keep the 
matter as secret as you choose. 

‘‘ Thank you,"^ Mrs. Trevena said. “ But I had rather 
not keep it secret. I have considered everything, and I am 
sure it will be better to tell the plain truth at once; that I 
have adopted a deserted child, and that he is henceforth 
my son — and I am his mother. 

The intonation of the last word startled even the good 
doctor, who knew human nature so well. It indicated one 
of those natures to whom motherhood is not merely a senti- 
ment or a duty, but a passion. He felt that he had done 
well — or rather that heaven had done better. 

‘‘You are right, he said, ‘"the outside world need 
never know any more than that— and I earnestly hope^ou, 
never will either. As for the boy himself, when he growls 
up you may tell him as much or as fittle as you please.’^ 

“ I shall tell him everything. The truth is always best. 
Dr. Franklin shook her warmly by the hand. “ I wish 
every boy in the world had a mother like you. May he 
live to ‘ rise up and call you blessed!^ 

Middle-aged and practical folk as they were, tears stood 
in the eyes of both. They understood one another. 

“ And now,^^ continued the doctor, “ I’ll just have to 
face that woman once more— about ten to-morrow fore- 
noon, she said. But I shall not try to worm anything more 
ouc of either her or her servant, who obeys her like a slave 
—she was her slave, and foster-mother as well— you anti- 
slavery folk don’t know the dogged fideUty of our Southern 
niggers. But I’ll wash my hands of both— when I get the 


42 


KING AKTHUK. 


baby. And then we three — with the young ^un and the 
goat, or a bottle of goat^s milk — will go on to Fluelen in 
that carriage the Germans had. I told the T7oman this; 
and oh! how she pricked up her ears, as if the only thing 
she wished was to get rid of her baby and never see it again 
in this world — as I fervently hope she never may!^^ 

“ I hope so too; and I intend it,^^ said Mrs. Trevena, 
very quietly, but with a firmness that betrayed the possible 
‘‘ iron hand in velvet glove — even her little hand. And 
as Mr. Trevena just then lounged in — with his gentle, gen- 
tlemanly, absent manner, and his eternal book under his 
arm — Dr. Franklin thought that perhaps the little woman 
had found out how in this life firmness is as necessary as 
gentleness. 

Everybody slept soundly that night; the worthy doctor, 
because he believed he had done his duty; Mrs. Trevena, 
because she saw plainly before her in long glad vista hers; 
and Mr. Trevena, because he did not think about it at all; 
being absorbed in a new reading which he had hit upon of 
a line in Horace, and which he tried to explain to his wife 
before they went to sleep. During the night one of those 
dense white mists, common at Andermatt, swept down 
from the mountains; by morning everything outside the 
hotel had become invisible; and, after the early departure 
of the German tourists, the almost empty hotel seemed to 
become as quiet as the grave. 

The post arrived, bringing Mr. Trevena his expected 
remittances, which he handed over as usual to his Chan- 
cellor of the Exchequer, as he called her — well for him 
that she was! With hands slightly trembling she examined 
the notes — there was enough money to take them home, 
and twenty pounds over. 

Mrs. Trevena looked nervously at her watch. “ Is not 
Doctor Franklin late?’^ she said — or rather was about to say 
— when she saw him hurrying in from the dependance, 

“I want you, maW. Come back with me. If that 


KING AKTHUE. 4S 

Woman is not a murderess, she is next door to one. But 
we may save the child yet if we make haste. 

Mrs. Trevena threw a shawl over her head and ran. 
There, in the middle of the one poor room, which had 
witnessed its unwelcome birth, lay the deserted child, half 
naked and only half alive, for no one seemed to have taken 
the trouble to feed or dress it. The floor was strewn with 
the debris of a hasty packing, and the accumulated untidi- 
ness of many days. In the midst of this chaos the poor 
infant lay, moaning its little life away — a very feeble moan 
now, for it must have lain there several hours. 

Mrs. Trevena dropped on her knees beside it. “ Oh, 
my baby! my baby!^^ she cried almost with a sob; took it 
in her arms, pressing the stone cold limbs to her warm 
breast, and wrapping it in the skirt of her dress, as she sat 
on the floor. 

“ It is mine, altogether mine now. Oh, doctor, can you 
save it yet?^^ 

“ ITl try,^^ muttered the good man, as he too knelt 
down and felt the fluttering pulse — rapidly sinking into 
stillness and death. 

They did try; and with the help of madame, who arrived 
presently from the hotel, equally voluble in her fury 
against ‘‘Madame L^Anonyme,^^ and her wondering re- 
spect for the gentle English miladi — they succeeded. 
Another hour, and the fleeting life had been arrested : the 
danger was past; and the poor little babe, warmed, fed, and 
clothed, lay safe in the bosom of its new-found mother, 
who rejoiced over it almost as if it had been the child of 
her own travail, which Heaven had taken away. 

“ This little fellow will owe you his life almost as much 
as if he had been born your own,"^ said the doctor, regard- 
ing them both with the curious tenderness which sometimes 
softened his keen, shrewd eyes. “If we had not come to 
the rescue, he would have been dead in another half hour. 
Kow — ^bless us! what a pair of lungs !^^ 


44 


KIIiTG ARTHUR. 


‘‘ No, he will not die — as his mother meant him to die,^^ 
cried indignant madame, who with nearly all the female 
servants of the hotel had gathered round in compassion 
and sympathy. ‘‘ The barbarous woman ! and, though she 
had a wedding-ring on her finger, I believe she was a 
woman of no character at all. ^ ’ 

“ We do not know that,^^ said Mrs. Trevena, trying to 
understand the French, and speaking firmly in her own 
tongue. “ Let us be silent about her. She is — or rather 
she was — my boy^s mother. 

From that hour Susannah always said, My boy.^^ 

“ Madame L^Anonyme had in truth disappeared, as 
anonymously as she came. How she and her servant had 
contrived to secure the Fluelen carriage, pack up their small 
baggage, and make what was literally a “ moonlight flit- 
ting,^'’ so quietly that no one had heard them depart, was, 
and remained, a complete mystery. 

No one sought to unravel it. No one pursued them or 
cared to do so — what could be gained by it? Nothing could 
be got out of them. The puzzle was, how, without money, 
they had managed to get away; and it was not till the up- 
roarious complaints of madame had been a little stilled by 
the application of a few English shillings — or rather Ameri- 
can dollars — that the doctor, seeing Mrs. Trevena uneasy 
because her part of the compact had not been fulfilled — she 
had got the child, and the twenty pounds was still in her 
pocket — owned, blushing like a girl, that he himself had 
“ taken the liberty of paying it the night before. 

“ It seemed the only way to quiet the woman, and keep 
her from doing something desperate. But you see she had 
less of desperation and more of worldly wisdom than I 
thought. Anyhow she is gone, and we have got rid of her 
— I hope forever. 

“ Thanks to you,^^ said Mrs. Trevena, as she silently put 
the bank-note in the doctor ^s hand; and he took it, for he 
was a practical man, and a poor man besides. 


KING ARTHUR. 


45 


I haye made eve^thing as safe as I can/^ said he. 
“ She has no clew to us, or we to her. Neither she nor her 
servant, who speaks 'only English, has ever heard your 
name — only mine; and as I am going back to America at 
once, she is not likely to find me out there. If she ever 
does, and wants to know about her child, she^ll meet her 
match — that^s all!^^ 

Thank you,^^ said Mrs. Trevena. For Mr. Trevena, 
he said nothing at all; he only watched with benignant 
pleasure the unspeakable content of his wife's face; and 
thence glanced downward, with a sort of amused curiosity, 
to the little creature on her lap, especially its hands and 
feet, as if to find out whether it had the right number of 
fingers and toes, and was no abnormal specimen of anthro- 
pology. A simple man, and a good man, was the Rever- 
end Austin; never swerving fronj his one domestic creed, 
that if his Susannah thought a thing right, it was right. 

So the exciting episode, which madame in her anxiety for 
the good name of her hotel wisely hushed up as much as 
possible, settled down into calmness. The baby did not 
die, as its natural unnatural mother had probably hoped it 
might. The goat was an excellent foster-mother; and 
before forty-eight hours were over, Mrs. Trevena felt — ay, 
and looked, as if she herself had been a real mother for 
years. 

Dr. Franklin watched her with his expression of dry 
humor, tempered by kindliness. 

‘‘Mrs. Franklin says, all the doctors and nurses going 
can't manage a baby so well as one sensible woman with a 
motherly heart. And as she has managed ten, may be she 
is right. Now — about the journey to Lucerne. If you 
take a bottle of goat's milk with you — also a doctor, in 
case of emergency. We shall get back to civilization without 
any difficulty. A nice ^ partie quarree ^ — ^you and your 
husband, myself, and — this little incumbrance. " 

“Incumbrance!" echoed Mrs. Travena, looking up to 


4G 


KmCr ARTHUR. 


Dr. Franklin with a grateful smile — no^ an actual laugh. 
He had never heard her laugh before. And she had much 
interested him — this little woman — ^not merely as a woman^, 
but as a ‘‘ case;^^ one of those cases which most people dis- 
believe in, yet which, though rare, are possible — a broken 
heart. A disease of which, if they have no absolute du- 
ties and are not physically strong, women can die, without 
murmur or regret. They neither struggle nor complain; 
but simply drop out of life as out of a worn garment no 
longer worth the wearing. 

Ho fear of that now for Susannah. Her whole nature 
seemed changed. Hope seemed to have come into her heart 
— the hope that comes with young life, rising up to renew 
and carry on the life which had seemed fading away. Her 
very face grew youthful; with a look not unlike some of 
EaphaeFs Madonnas; far away, as if peering into the dim 
future; and yet content in the present — the small limited 
present, from day to day, and hour to hour, as mothers 
learn to look. 

For she was a mother now to all intents and purposes. 
She kept saying to herself involuntarily that line of Mrs. 
Browning^s lovely poem, A child^s grave at Florence — 

My little feet, my little hands, 

And hair of Lily’s color.” 

As she almost persuaded herself it was; that the hair — 
quite wonderful for a baby a week old, which she admired 
and toyed with, was exactly the same shade as that on the 
nameless little head which had been buried, one sad mid- 
night, in a corner of the church-yard by the vicarage gar- 
den-gate. 

Often it really seemed to her that her lost child had come 
back alive, bringing with him the future of bliss to which 
she had looked forward, all through those mysterious 
months — and then had to renounce forever. It revived 
again now. Every time she kissed the crumpled-up mot- 


KIiq^G ARTHUK. 


47 


tied face — which, had no beauty for any one but her — she 
saw in imagination the face of her son, as boy, youth, man; 
carrying her forward five, ten, twenty years — years full of 
hope; does not some poet call a child a perpetual 
hope?^^ 

‘‘ Think what our new home will he — a house with a 
child in it?^^ she said to her husband once; only once, for 
her happiness lay too deep to be talked about, even to him. 
Nor could he have understood it. He was not of an 
imaginative turn of mind. So that nothing troubled him 
in the present — and his wife took good care of that — he 
never troubled himself about the future. Like many 
another contented bookworm, he rarely saw an inch beyond 
his own nose. Yet he was the most patient and easily satis- 
fied of men, even to remaining a day or two longer at An- 
dermatt; and going about with Dr. Franklin instead of his 
wife, whose new-found duties, added to the ordinary travel- 
ing cares, which always fell upon her, not him, absorbed 
her entirely. 

But at last the two men, coming home from a quiet 
wander through the fiowery meadows beside the Reuss, and 
an investigation, chiefiy to kill time, of the little chapel, 
with its strange glass tomb of the mummied knight lying 
‘‘ in his habit as he lived — ^found Mrs. Trevena sitting, 
oblivious of Alps and antiquities, with her baby asleep on 
her lap, and everything settled for their departure to-mor- 
row. 

It will soon seem all like a dream,^^ she said, as she 
cast her eyes absently on the wonderful view from the win- 
dow — the great circle of mountains, the georgeously col-^ 
ored pastures, and the wild rapid Reuss glittering in the 
sun. ‘‘We are never likely to see this place again; but I 
think I shall always remember it— the place where my boy 
was born. ” 

“And born again — if one may say it without irrever- 
ence,"" added Dr. Franklin, “otherwise he had better be 


48 


king aethuk. 


dead — as he certainly would have been now, except for 
you. By the bye, you will have to give the young scamp 
a name — and the sooner you do it the better. Get him 
christened, and keep a copy of the baptismal certificate. 
It may be useful yet. And I think you might as well make 
me his godfather, because I at least know when and where 
he was born. It will be a certain protection both to him 
and to you.^^ 

“ Thank you!^^ said Mrs. Trevena gratefully — but she 
smiled at the idea of her Childs’s needing “ protection — or 
she either. With him in her arms she felt as strong, as 
fearless, as any natural mother — even beast or bird does, 
with the instinct of maternity upon her. 

Dr. Franklin stuck to his point, insisting that a baptis- 
mal certificate was the nearest approach they could make 
to giving the child “ a local habitation and a name ” in 
this perplexing world, the godparents attesting the place 
and date of birth, though they could only add parentage 
unknown. 

“ And then you must take your chance as to the future, 
and this poor little fellow also; unless you will come with 
me to America, where, in our enlightened States, you can 
lawfully adopt him. 

But that would be of no use in England, you said, and 
England must be our home. Yes, we must take our 
chance,'’^ she added, with an under-tone that implied one 
who meant to control chance, rather than succumb to it. 
‘‘And now, about the name — the Christian name. For 
surname, he will take ours — shall he not, Austinr^^ 

, “ Anything you like — anything you like, my dear.^^ 

“ Yes, I think you are right, Mrs. Trevena. Poor little 
man, his name matters little. He will have to go through 
life as nobody^s child. 

“ Except God’s- — and mine. ” 

And Susannah pressed her lips, as solemnly as if it had 
been a sacrament or a vow, on the tiny hand with its 


KIKG ARTHUR. 


49 


curled-up fingers;, the feeble right hand^ so helpless now— 
but would it be always so? 

Dr. Franklin smiled, kindly, paternally, on the creature 
whose life he had helped to save; why, or to what end, who 
could tell? All child-lives are a mystery, but this was a 
mystery above all. The little thing lay sleeping in uncon- 
scious peace on its adopted mother’s lap: the infant who 
would be a man when they were in their graves. But the 
two men did not understand. The woman did. 

Mrs. Trevena at last looked up. A twilight glow reflected 
from the mountains was on her face; and an inward gl^w, 
which made her almost pretty again — almost young. 

I have thought of a name. We are Cornish born, as I 
told you. Doctor Franklin. When I was a girl, my one hero 
was our great Cornishman, who was also ‘ Nobody’s child ’ 
— found by Merlin, they say, as a little naked baby on the 
shore at Tintagel, but he grew up to be the stainless 
knight — the brave soldier — the Christian king. My boy 
shall do the same — in his own way. It does not matter how 
he was born, if he lives so that everybody will mourn him 
when he dies. So he shall have my hero’s name. He shall 
be my ‘ King ’ Arthur.” 

You romantic little woman!” said her husband, half 
apologetically, half proudly. But he listened to her, as he 
always did; and her decision carried the day. 

Next morning, when the sun had just risen above the 
mountains, and was only beginning to warm the silent 
valley, the little party left Andermatt; Mr. and Mrs. 
Trevena, Dr. Franklin, and the ‘‘incumbrance,” as the 
doctor called it, but who slept so calmly as to be no incum- 
brance at all. It was evidently an infant of placid mind, 
able to accommodate itself to circumstances. 

They were followed by the benedictions and good wishes 
of madame and the hotel people, who could not, to the last, 
understand the affair, but set it all down to English eccen- 


50 


KIKG AETHUR. 


tricity. They departed, and the little remote Alpine Val- 
ley, which had witnessed so much, knew them no more. 


OHAPTEE III. 

Arthur Franklin Trevena— for they had given him 
also the name of his good godfather, who parted from him 
at Lucerne, never probably to behold him again — “ King 
Arthur arrived at the vicarage which his adopted parents, 
creating no small sensation in the parish which they had 
left, a forlorn and childless couple, six months before. But 
the villagers were simple folks, who accepted the baby upon 
his ‘‘ mother’s own simple statement. Mrs. Trevena was 
among the few people who have courage to believe that the 
plain truth is not only the wisest but the safest thing — that 
he was a deserted child, whom she had taken for her own, 
and meant to bring up exactly as her own. And those 
other mothers who remembered her sad looks when she 
went away, and compared them with her happy looks now, 
agreed that “ the parson^s wife had done right and best, 
not only for herself, but most likely for “ the parson 
also. 

The only individual who ventured to question this, or in 
any way to criticise the proceeding, was a neighboring 
clergyman, a college friend, who in Mr. Trevena’s absence 
had undertaken the care of the hundred souls his parish 
contained. This gentleman, a man of fortune and family, 
remonstrated, in a letter of sixteen pages, with his “ rever- 
end brother ” on what he had done, in bringing a nameless 
child, possibly the offspring of sin and shame, into a re- 
spectable and, above all, a clergyman’s household. He 
quoted many texts, such as “ the sins of the fathers shall be 
visited on the children,” and ‘‘ the seed of evil-doers shall 
never be renowned,” which for a moment staggered the 
simple-minded vicar. And he ended by asking, ‘‘ 'VVhat 


KIKG ARTHUR. 


51 


would the Trevenas say?^ ^ — forgetting that the only Trevena 
left was Hal at the Antipodes, of whom even his old college 
acquaintance would have owned, if questioned, that the 
less said about him the better. 

But, except this lengthy epistle, which Mr. Trevena read 
m silence, and passed on to Mrs. Trevena, by whose gleam- 
ing eyes he saw that the silence had better be continued, 
for there was a dangerous light in them that few men 
would have cared to face — the couple met with no opposi- 
tion or comment on what they had done or what they meant 
to do. The nine days^ wonder settled down; and after the 
village mothers had come to look at the baby, and pro- 
nounced it the finest baby that ever was seen, everybody 
seemed to take the matter as quite natural. Poor people 
are often so kind, sometimes so romantically generous, about 
other people^s children: many a nursing mother will not 
scruple to take to her home and her breast some motherless 
babe; and many a nameless infant, paid for at first, and 
then forsaken, has been brought up for charity by its foster- 
parents. So the fact of an adopted child did not strike 
these innocent villagers as anything remarkable. They only 
thought it was uncommon kind^^ of Mrs. Trevena, and 
hoped she would be rewarded for her charity.^-’ 

Charity! She laughed at the word. Charity had noth- 
ing at all to do with it. A child m the house — it was a joy 
incarnate — a blessing unspeakable — a consolation without 
end. She did her duties, neither light nor few, but through 
them all she hugged herself in her secret bliss. She used 
to think of it as she walked — as she chatted to her neighbors 
— and (oh, sinful Susannah!) often as she sat in church. 
‘‘ My little feet — my little hands. When she came back 
to them, when she ran upstairs to the small attic — small 
but sunshiny— where Manette and Arthur were installed, 
and taking the baby, sat, rocking him and singing to him 
in the old-fashioned rocking-chair which had been her 
mother^s, every care she had — and she had some, a few 


52 


KING ARTHUR. 


mole-hills that many another woman would have made into 
mountains — seemed to melt away. That morbid self-con- 
templation, if not actual selfishness, which is so apt to grow 
upon old maids and childless wives — upon almost all women 
who have arrived at middle age without knowing the 
baby-fingers, waxen touches,’^ which press ail bitterness 
out of the mother^s breast — vanished into thin air. It 
could not exist amidst the wholesome practicality of nursery- 
life; a nursery where the mother is a real mother, and sees 
to everything herself, as was necessary in this case. For 
Manette, the young Swiss orphan whom they had found at 
Lucerne and installed as nurse, was a mere girl, who spoke 
no English, though she soon taught her mistress to speak 
French. They two became very happy together, guarding 
with mutual care, and sometimes just a spice of jealousy, 
the little warm white bundle which contained a sentient 
human being — or what would be one day — Manette^s pet 
and plaything, Mrs, Trevena^s perpetual hope."’ ^ 

Had she been a disappointed woman? Perhaps; in some 
sense all women of imaginative temperament are. They 
start in life expecting the impossible, which of course never 
comes; and at last find themselves growing old with their 
hearts still painfully young~it may be, a little empty; for 
not even the best of men and husbands can altogether fill 
the void which Nature makes; even as no woman can fill, 
or ought to fill, that sterner half of a man^s being which is 
meant for the world and its work. 

But now Susannah ^s empty heart was filled — ^her monoto- 
nous life brightened; the future (she was only just over 
forty, and had a future still) — stretched out long and fair; 
for it was not her own — it was her son^s. The evening be- 
fore they left the vicarage for the new rectory — a sweet 
September evening — since it had taken fully three months 
to make the new home ready to receive them— she went out 
alone and planted a young tree, a seedling sycamore, which 
no one was likely to notice till it grew a tree — in the church- 


KmG ARTHUR. 


53 


yard corner^ where was the little grave of which nobody 
knew. But she scarcely felt it a farewell. She thought 
how the fibers would wrap themselves tenderly round the 
buried bones, and the top would spread itself out into green 
leaves and branches. And it seemed as if out of her dead 
baby’s grave had sprung the other child — another and yet 
the same — sent direct from Heaven to be her comfort and 
blessing. Unconsciously she repeated to herself the bene- 
diction of the Psalmist; 

He shall be like a tree planted by the water-side, that 
will bring forth his fruit in due season; his leaf also shall 
not wither; and look! whatsoever he doeth it shall pros- 
per.” 

It will be so,” she said to herself, “ if I have strength 
to bring him up in the right way, to make him into a just 
man — ‘ a man that feareth the Lord. ’ Then, I need have 
no fear. ‘ AVhatsoever he doeth it shall prosper.’ ” 

And little Arthur — somehow, from the first, he was 
always called Arthur, never “ baby ” — did seem to prosper; 
as much in his new home as in his old one. He had a larger 
and better nursery, not at the top, but at the end of the 
house; which was a very pretty house, the prettiest as well 
as the most comfortable that Susannah had ever lived in. 
From her youth up she had had to battle with the domestic 
ugliness that accompanies grinding poverty; to smother 
down her tastes and predelictions, to live in streets instead 
of fields — at least till her marriage. And even marriage 
had brought little respite in the hard work, the ceaseless 
cares — inevitable from the necessity of making sixpence do 
the work of a shilling. 

But now all was changed. She had as much money as 
she needed— enough even to lay by a little (oh! joyful 
economy!) for the future education of her son. 

‘‘We can not provide for him,” she had said to her hus- 
band, “ but we can give him a good education, and then let 
him work for himself. It is the best thing for all boys. It 


54 


KING ARTHUE. 


might have been better for Hal (she thought, but did not 
say, perhaps also for HaFs brother) ‘‘ if he had been thrown 
upon the world without a single halfpenny. 

So when she saw the pretty rectory nestling under its 
acacia-tree beside the lovely old church, and knew there 
was income enough to live there comfortably, she yet de- 
termined to waste nothing: to expend nothing foolishly 
upon outward show, or in keeping up a position — as the 

owners of the great house close by were reported to have 
done for generations. Consequently, the Damerels of the 
last generation had been too poor to occupy their splendid 
abode — or even to come back to it — except to be buried. 
Their vault in the old church was all that remained to 
them, in spite of their ancient name, and an estate which 
had belonged to them for centuries. Her boy, Susannah 
often thought, blossoming day by day into rosy infancy — 
the darling of his good Manette and his devoted mother 
— was happier than the neir of all the Damerels— a poor 
idiot, report said, never seen or heard of, whose family 
home was let, and the property put into Chanceiy, until 
his fortunate death cleared the way for some distant cousins, 
ready to fight over the title and estate like dogs over a bone. 

So much for ‘ family ^ — so much for ‘ fortune!^ medi- 
tated Mrs. -Trevena; and was almost glad that she herself 
was the last of her race, and that her husband^s only rela- 
tion was Hal — safe away in Australia. “You will start in 
life all free, my darling — as free as if you had dropped from 
heaven in a basket. You will stand on your own feet, and 
make your own way in the world, with nobody to hamper 
you, and torment you — except your mother 

And she kissed with a passion of tenderness the baby 
eyes, which had already begun to develop intelligence, and 
the sweet baby mouth, so smiling and content; for Arthur, 
like most healthy and carefully reared children, was an ex- 
ceedingly “ good child— who gave little trouble to any 
one. Before the winter was over he had learned to know 


KING AtlTHUK. 


55 


his mother^s step and voice, to laugh when she entered 
the nursery and to cry when she left it. Soon, if brought 
face to face with a stranger, he would turn away, clasp his 
little fat arms tight round her neck and hide his face on 
her shoulder, as if recognizing already that she was no 
stranger, but his natural protector, refuge, and consolation 
— his mother, in short, and everything that a mother ought 
to be. 

For his father — well! young infants scarcely need one; 
and certainly the father does not need them — often quite 
the contrary. But it rather pleased Mr. Trevena to be 
called “ papa — as they decided he should be; and now 
and then, when he met Manette walking in the garden with 
Arthur in her arms, he would stop her, and, stroking with 
one finger the rosy cheek, remark that it was “ a very nice 
baby.-’^ But he did not investigate or interfere further. 
Even had it been his own child, he probably would have 
done no more. A baby was to him a curious natural phe- 
nomenon, which he regarded with ignorant but benevolent 
eyes, much as he did the chickens m his farm-yard, or the 
little pigs in his sty; but taking no individual interest in 
them whatever. Not until the spring had begun and the 
leaves were budding and the primroses springing about 
Tawton Magna, making it truly what it was said to be, the 
prettiest rectory m all Cornwall — did Manette report that 
‘‘ Monsieur had actually kissed “ le bebe^^ — that it had 
crowed to him and pulled his hair, and altogether conduct- 
ed itself with an intelligence and energy worthy of nine el- 
even ten months old. 

“ Is it really nearly a year since we were in Switzerland?^^ 
said Mr. Trevena to his wiife, as she joined him at the 
gate; she always went his parish round with him, and did 
everything for him, exactly as before the coming of little 
Arthur; only her many solitary hours were solitary now no 
more. But to her husband everything was made so perfectly 
the same that he often forgot the very existence of the baby. 


56 


KIl^G AKTHUR. 


Arthur — that is his name, I think — really does credit to 
you, my dear — and the rectory too. It must be a very 
healthy house, for I never saw you look so well.-’^ 

She smiled. They loved one another very dearly — ^those 
two; old as they were — and different in many ways. But 
difference of character does not prevent affection — rather 
increases it sometimes. 

‘‘ All the village tells me what a fine child Arthur is — 
the first child, by the bye, that has been in the rectory for 
fifty years. My predecessor, as you know, was an old bach- 
elor. Everybody is delighted to have a lady in the village. 
You and your boy bid fair to be the pets of the parish, Su- 
sannah, my dear. , 

Which was true — and not unnatural. For her motherly 
heart, warmed through and through with the sunshine of 
happiness, opened not only to her own, but to every child 
she came near; to every poor soul, old or young, that want- 
ed happiness and had it not. Everybody liked her — every- 
body praised her; and husbands are always proud to have 
their wives liked and praised. The rector was very proud 
of his Susannah. 

They strolled peacefully together through the village, ad- 
ministering ghostly counsel and advice; together with 
creature comforts which Mrs. Tevena held to be equally 
desirable. She was a capital clergyman's wife — she liked 
to “ mother everybody. 

As usual, their walk ended in the church, which was 
open for its Saturday cleaning. It was a curious old build- 
ing-very ‘‘tumble-down,"" the parish thought, but was 
happily too poor to have it “ restored;"" so it remained for 
the delight of archaeologists, and especially of Mr. Trevena. 
He never wearied of examining the brasses, the old monu- 
ments, the huge worm-eaten, curiously carved pews; and 
especially “ the 8quire"s pew,"" as large as a small parlor, 
where the last Damerels, the baronet and his lady, had 
been accustomed to sit in two huge arm-chairs over the, 


KIKG ARTHUR. 


57 


bones of their ancestors. Their own bones were now added 
to the rest; and the tablet describing their virtues, with a 
weeping angel on each side, took its place with the recum- 
bent crusader, and the well-ruffled Elizabethan knight, with 
his kneeling progeny behind him. 

“ What a splendid old family they must have been! Prob- 
ably Norman — D^Amiral corrupted into Damerel. Ah!^' 
— and he laid a caressing hand on the head of the noseless 
and footless crusader — it is a great thing to come of a 
good race, and to bear an honorable name. 

‘‘ Is it?’^ said Susannah quietly, and thought of the 
poor half-witted boy — the heir whom her neighbors had told 
her of, and then of her own boy — her nameless baby — full 
of health and strength and intelligence, yet without a tie 
in the wide world. Only he was, as she had once said, 
“ God^s child and hers. 

He had been hers for nearly two years. She had almost 
forgotten — and everybody else too — that he was not really 
her own; even the rector himself was taking kindly to his 
paternity, accepting it as he did the other good things 
which had dropped into his mouth without his seeking — 
when something happened which, for the time being, shook 
the happy little household to its very foundations. 

Mrs. Trevena, one bright June day, had put on her bon- 
net to go and meet her child, who had been “ kidnapped 
as they called it — by the large kindly plebeian family, one 
of the nouveaux riches that conveniently step into the 
shoes of aristocratic poverty, who inhabited Tawton Ab- 
bas. She was passing through the church- yard into the 
park, idly thinking how beautiful it was, how bright her 
life here had grown, and what had she done to deserve it 
all — when she came suddenly face to face with a strange 
gentleman, who was apparently wandering about, trying 
to find his way to the rectory. He was well-dressed and 
well-looking; but he seemed less like an ordinary visitor 
than a prowler. Also, though rather a handsome man, 


58 


KIKG ARTHtlR. 


there was something sinister in his face; he was ofie of 
those people who never look you straight in the eyes. 

He stood aside as the lady passed, with a half- bow, which 
she acknowledged. But the instant she had passed a vague 
terror seized Susannah — the one little cloud which secretly 
hung over her entire felicity^ — the fear that her treasure 
might be grudged her, or snatched from her, by the woman 
who had thrown it away? She had taken every precaution 
to leave behind at Andermatt no possible clew; even ma- 
dame at the hotel, though she knew the names Trevena 
and Frankhn, knew no further address than ‘‘ England 
and “ America.'’^ Often when she looked at her bright, 
beautiful boy, a spasm of fear came over her, so that she 
could hardly bear to let him out of her sight. 

This dread took hold of her now. What if the stranger 
were an emissary from Arthur^s unknown mother — or his 
father — the “ fool of a husband — whom she had so de- 
spised? At the bare idea Mrs. Trevena^s heart almost 
stopped beating. But it was not her way to fly from an 
evil; she preferred to meet it — and at once. She turned 
back and spoke. 

‘‘ You seem a stranger here. Can I do anything for 
you?^^ 

“ Thank you — yes, I suppose I am a stranger. I have 
not been in England for some years. 

A likeness in the tones of the voice — ^family voices often 
resemble one another like family faces — startled Susannah , ' 
and yet relieved her. She was almost prepared for the 
“ stranger ^s next words. 

‘‘lam told that this is the village of Tawton Magna, 
and the Reverend Austin Trevena is rector here?^^ 

“ Yes.^^ 

“ Then would you kindly direct me to the rectory? 
am Captain Trevena, his brother. ” 

Hal, of whom they had heard nothing since the letter re- 
Qeived at Andermatt — Hal come back from Australia! It 


KING ARTHUE. 


59 


was a great blow, and might involve much perplexity; but 
it could not strike her to the heart, as the other blow would 
have done, had the stranger been some one coming to claim 
her child. After a momentary start Susannah was herself 
again. 

Now, it so happened that since his boyhood she had never 
seen her brother-in-law; who evidently did not remember 
her at all. At first she thought she would accept this non- 
recognition and pass on; but it seemed cowardly. And be- 
sides she would soon have to face him; for whatever his 
sudden appearance might bode, she was quite sure it boded 
no good. Hahs fraternal affection always lay dormant — 
unless he wanted something. 

So, looking him straight in the eyes, but putting out no 
hand of welcome, she said, briefiy, ‘‘lam Mrs. Trevena. 
That is the gate of the rectory,^^ and walked on toward 
Tawton Abbas. 

In most families there is one black sheep — happy if only 
one! for the well-being of the whole family depends upon 
its treatment of the same, treatment wise or unwise, as 
may happen. Few black sheep are wholly black; and some 
may, with care and prudence, be kept a decent- gray; but 
to make believe they are snow-white, and allow them to 
run among the harmless flock, smirching every one they 
come near, is a terrible mistake. Perhaps Susannah some- 
times recognized, with as much bitterness as her sweet 
nature could feel, that this mistake had all through life 
been made by her husband. 

She knew Austin was at home, and thought it best the 
brothers should meet — since they must meet — quite alone; 
whife she gathered up all her courage, all her common 
sense, to face the position. Captain Trevena — as he called 
himself, having been in the militia once, till he was turned 
out — had not attempted to follow her. Perhaps he was 
afraid of her; or thought he had good need to be; which 
was true. 


60 


KING AKTHUK. 


A kind of superstitious halo has been thrown round the 
heads of prodigal sons — doubtless originating in the divine 
parable, or the human corruption of it. , Only people for- 
get -how that prodigal son, saying, “I will arise, really 
does arise, leaving behind him his riotous living, his husks 
and his swine. He goes to his father, humbled and poor, 
and his father welcomes and loves him. But most prodigal 
sons bring their husks and their swine with them, nor ever 
condescend to say, ‘‘ I have sinned. They appear, as Hal 
Trevena did, as he had always been in the habit of doing — 
neither hungry nor naked, but quite cheerful and comfort- 
able. They may cry ‘‘ Peccavi,"’^ but it never occurs to 
them to forsake their sins, or to feel any more penitence 
than is picturesque and convenient to show. 

This had been Halbert Trevena^s character for the last 
forty years; and Susannah, suddenly meeting him after a 
long interval, and judging him by feminine instinct, as 
well as by the bitter experience of the past, did not think 
he was likely to be altered now. 

She walked rapidly on through the pleasant, solitary 
park, both to calm her mind, and to consider how she was 
to face this emergency; which on the outside appeared 
nothing more than the meeting — supposed a welcome meet- 
ing — ^between long separated brothers. But, underneath— 
she knew, only too well, what it implied. And not the 
least of the difficulties was her good, tender-hearted hus- 
band, who, absorbed in his books, never looked ahead for a 
single week, and whose own nature was so sweet and simple, 
that he could not imagine the contrary in any human being. 

Susannah hastened on with quick troubled steps, till she 
saw Manette and little Arthur coming down the path.^ 

‘‘ Mammy, mammy!^^ — he could just say that word now, 
and oh, what a thrill had gone through her heart vffien she 
first heard it! Stretching out eager arms, he tried to 
struggle out of his perambulator and get to her — “ Up, 
up! in mammy's arms!" 


KmQ AKTHUE. 


61 


She took him up and clasped him tight — her one bless- 
ing that was all her own. More so perhaps than if he had 
been really her own, and had to call Hal Trevena ‘‘ Uncle. 
As the thought smote her, involuntarily she said Thank 
God. But the clinging of his baby arms, the kiss of his 
baby mouth, melted the bitterness out of her heart; after a 
few minutes she felt herself able to return to the house, and 
meet whatever was required to be met there. The sooner 
the better, for who could tell what might be happening in 
her absence? 

She found the two brothers sitting together in the study, 
looking as comfortable as if they had parted only yesterday. 
At least Hal did; but Austin had a troubled air, which he 
tried to hide under an exaggeration of ease. When his wife 
opened the door he looked up with great relief. 

My dear, this is Hal, from Australia. You must re- 
member Hal, though it is so many ears since you saw 
him.^^ 

.0 

Twenty-four years. But half an hour age^he asked 
me to direct him to the rectory. He was not aware, I 
think, that he was speaking to the mistress of the house. ” 

And she sat down, still without offering her hand, as if 
to make clear that she. was the mistress of the house, and 
had determined to assert her position. 

Captian Trevena was a shrewd man, a good deal shrewder 
and more quick-sighted than his brother; he too saw his 
position, and recognized that things might not go quite so 
easily with him as when the Reverend Austin was a 
bachelor. Still he smiled and bowed in bland politeness: 

“ I am delighted to come to my brother’s home, and see 
it adorned with a wife. I only wish I had brought mine 
here. Mrs. Trevena (excuse me, but as the eldest son’s 
wife she has the first right) is a very handsome person, and 
our eldest son, the heir to the Trevena name, takes after 
her, I should have liked you to see them, Austin; but. 


62 


KING AKTHUE. 


considering all things, I thought it best to leave them both 
in Australia for the present/^ 

“ Of course — of course/^ said Mr. Trevena. Mrs. 
Trevena said nothing. If tor a second a natural pang 
smote her heart, it was healed immediately. For, through 
the window she could see a pretty vision of Manette's blue 
gown, with two little fat legs trotting after it along the 
gravel path. She turned round, smiling — she could afford 
to smile. 

‘‘ I am glad you are happy in your wife and son. But 
why leave them? What call had you to England 

To see my brother — was it not natural? An old 
‘ Times ^ fell into my hands, in which I read what (of 
course by some mistake) he had never told me— the pres- 
entation of the Eeverend Austin Trevena to the living of 
Tawton Magna — value — I forget how much. So I thought 
I would come, just to — to congratulate him.^^ 

‘‘.Along journey for so small an object. And having 
accomplished it, I suppose you will return ?^^ 

“ If my brother wishes it, and if he will give me a little 
brotherly help.^^ 

“ I thought so.^^ 

Brief as this conversation was, it showed to both the 
brother and sister-in-law exactly where they stood. The 
big, hearty, well-dressed man looked across at the homely 
little woman, and felt that times were changed; it was war 
to the knife between them, and could not be otherwise. 

Had he come like the proverbial prodigal, in rags and 
repentance, Susannah^s heart might have melted. She 
might have killed the fatted calf, even though fearing it 
was in vain: she might have put the ring on his finger, 
though with a strong suspicion that he would pawn it the 
very next day. But now, when he came, fat and well- 
liking, yet with the same never-ending cry, like the 
daughters of the horse-leech, “ Give, give!^^ she felt her- 
self hardening into stone» 


KmOt ARTHUK. 


63 


** I am sorry, but your brother's income, of which you 
have evidently known the extent, is absorbed by his own 
family and his parish. He has for years supplied you with 
so much that he can not possibly do any more. He ought 
not.’^ 

“ Ho, Hal,^^ said the rector, gathering a little courage, 
and taking Susannah’s hand as she sat beside him, indeed, 
I ought not. You know I was telling you this before my 
wife came into the room.” 

“ My husband is right,” said Susannah firmly. There- 
fore, Captain Trevena, all I can offer you is a night’s hos- 
pitality. After that we had better part.” 

“ My dear sister, why?” 

“ A man with a wife and child has no business to leave 
them and go wandering about the world, even for the very 
desirable purpose of begging money from his relations. 
He had better stay at home and work. ” 

‘‘A gentleman work!” Hal laughed; that easy, good- 
natured laugh which made people think him to charming. 
‘‘ My dear lady, it is out of the nature of things — you can’t 
expect it. • I never did work — I never shall. ” 

“ I believe you.” The only thing he could say, Susannah 
might have added, that she did believe. He was such a 
confirmed liar that she began to think even the wife and 
child might be mythical creations, invented in order to 
play upon Austin’s feelings. 

“ Hor,” he continued lightly, is there any special rea- 
son why I should work. My wife is an heiress — her father 
made his fortune at the gold-diggings. The old fellow 
dotes upon her — even more than upon me. He likes to 
keep her all to himself, and so makes it easy for me to run 
away and amuse myself.” 

How comes it then that you want money?” 

“ My dear Miss Hyde (beg pardon, but I heard of you as 
Susannah Hyde for so many ears that I almost forget you ■ 
are anything else now), a gentleman always wants money. 


64 


KIKG ARTHUR. 


But it is only a temporary inconvenience. I shall be 
delighted to repay Austin every farthing — with interest too, 
if he wishes it — as soon as ever I get back to Australia.^'’ 
And when will that be?^^ 

“ Cela depend. By the bye, there is a pretty young 
tonne upon whom I was airing my French an hour ago in 
the road. I see her now in your garden with her ‘ Mbe. ^ 

Whose child is thatr^^ 

“ Mine,^^ said Susannah firmly. 

‘‘ Yours? I thought Austin told me he had no children.^ ^ 
I^or have we. This is our adopted child. We found 
him, and we mean to keep him and bring him up as our 
son. 

And heir? To inherit all you possess?^^ 

“ What little there is left — certainly. 

“ As Susannah spoke— slowly and resolutely — Captain 
Trevena’s handsome face grew dark; his bland voice 
sharpened. 

“ Truly, this is a pretty state of things for a long-absent 
brother to come home to — a sister-in-law, not too aifection- 
ate, and an unexpected nephew. I congratulate you, 
Austin, on your son. Some beggar’s brat, I suppose, 
whom your wife has picked up in the street and made a pet 
of — like a stray dog or half-starved cat. What noble 
charity!” 

“Not charity at all,” answered Susannah, seeing that 
her husband left her to answer, as was his habit on difiicult 
occasions. “ It pleased God to take away our only child; 
but He gave us this one instead. And, as I said, we mean 
to keep him. If we bring him up rightly, he will be the 
comfort of our old age. ” 

“ Indeed? But meantime a child is a rather expensive 
luxury — ^too expensive to make it possible ever to help 
others — your own flesh and blood, for instance. I thought, 
Austin, that charity began at home; and that blood was 
thicker than water?” 


KING ARTHUR. 


65 


Poor Austin! he regarded his brother with that worried, 
badgered, perplexed look, so familiar to his face once, but 
which the peace of later years had almost driven away. 
Susannah knew it well enough; it brought back a vision of- 
the long hopeless time of their engagement, when she was 
passive and powerless. But she was neither now. It was 
not necessary — it was not right. 

“ Halbert Trevena,"*^ she said, quietly enough, but with 
flashing eyes and glowing cheeks, “how dare you, who 
have been a drain upon your brother all his life — a per- 
petual thorn in his side and grief in his heart — how dare you 
talk of blood being thicker than water 

“ Susannah— my dear Susannah, be patient said the 
rector in a deprecating tone. “You see, Hal, we don^t 
want to be hard upon you; but really, you seem so well off, 
and your wife, you say, is an heiress. AVe, now, Susannah 
and I, can only just make ends meet, I assure you.-’^ 

He spoke meekly — almost apologetically. But with 
Susannah the day of meekness was past. “ Captain Tre- 
vena, it is best to be plain with you. I am mistress of this 
house. I will give you a night ^s lodging, but nothing 
more. With my consent, my husband shall not waste upon 
you a single halfpenny. What money he has left, that you 
have not robbed him of, he may leave you by will; but 
while he lives his income is not yours — it is mine.-’-^ 

Sternly as it was spoken, this was the truth of the case, 
both in law and equity, and both brothers knew it. The 
cunning one shrugged his shoulders — the weak one sighed; 
but neither attempted to conti’overt it. 

“ Of course, said Austin at last, “ one^s wife is nearer 
than one^s brother; and Susannah never speaks without 
having well considered everything."’^ 

“ Excellent wife! Admirable marriage laws!’^ said Hal, 
tapping his boot with his cane — a very handsome silver- 
mounted cane. In fact, all the attire of this poor prodigal 
was of the most expensive kind. “ ^ AVhat’s thine is 

3 


G6 


KIN'G ARTHUK. 


mine, and what^s mine is my own!^ is a well-known saying. 
But I always thought, Austin, that this rule applied to us, 
and not to the ladies. However, tempora mutant mores — 
especially family manners. Perhaps I had better go. ^ It 
may be for years and it may be forever!'’ as the song says. 
Well — good-bye, Austin.'’^ 

Susannah ^s heart softened — her husband looked so very 
unhappy. After all, Hal was his brother. They had been 
boys together; and there was still between them that ex- 
ternal family likeness, not incompatible with the greatest 
unlikeness internally. The law of heredity has freaks so 
strange that sometimes one almost doubts its existence; yet 
it does exist, though abounding in mysteries capable of 
great modification; and above all, full of the most solemn 
individual warnings. 

I think you should go,” said Mrs. Trevena; “ but go 
to-morrow, not to-day. Your ways are so different from 
ours, that we are better apart; still, do not let us part un- 
kindly. And carry back our good wishes to your wife and 
child. May you live a happy life with them, and make 
them happy! It is not too late.-’^ 

For a minute, perhaps, this man, who had never made 
any human being aught but miserable in all his days, felt a 
twinge of regret; the wing of the passing angel touched his 
heart — if he had one. He scanned his sister-in-law, half in 
earnest, and then the light sarcastic laugh returned. The 
good angel was gone. 

“ Oh, dear, no! Not too late at all. I am the most 
domestic man alive. I adore my home— when I am at 
home. And my wife — when I can get her. But as I said, 
she has such a devoted papa — a millionaire — that I rarely 
can get her. You see, Austin?^'’ 

Austin did not see, but his wife did, and turned away; 
remembering bitterly that hopeless proverb about the silk 
purse and the sow^s ear; and thinking with a vague pity 


KIN-G ARTHUR. 67 

of her unknown sister-in-law — the mother who had a son 
of her very own. 

But before she had time to speak came the pattering of 
little feet outside, and the battering of tiny hands against 
the study door. 

“I will leave you now/^ said Mrs. Trevena, rising. 
“You and Austin will like a chat together. We dine at 
two — our early dinner; we are homely people — as you see. 

“ But most delightful! I think I never saw such a 
picturesque house; or — as the door flew open and dis- 
closed “ King ^ ^ Arthur standing there — a veritable little 
king — with his rosy cheeks, his cloud of curly hair, and his 
sturdy healthy frame' — “ or a more attractive child. Come 
in, sir! Let me see the young interloper.'’^ 

And Hal made as though he would take him in his arms, 
but Susannah sprung forward and took him in hers; from 
which safe vantage-ground the child looked out, facing the 
man with his honest baby eyes. 

Children have strange instincts — are often wonderful 
judges of character. Allure as Hal might, and did, noth- 
ing would induce little Arthur to kiss him, or even let him- 
self be touched by him. The pretty under lip began to 
fall; he clung to his mother, and would shortly have burst 
into an open cry, had not Susannah carried him away — as 
she wisely did — at all times when his angelhood melted into 
common babyhood. As she did so, she caught the expres- 
sion of her brother-in -la w^s eyes, which made her clasp her 
little one all the closer. “ King Arthur — ^born amongst 
foes, having to be protected from his own mother, and from 
all his unknown kin — would, she perceived, have to be pro- 
tected against one enemy more. 

Glad as she was to escape, she knew she must not be ab- 
sent long: she dared not. If ever man combined the ser- 
pent with the dove — the smoothest, most dainty feathered, 
and low-voiced of doves — it was Halbert Trevena. Many a 
time in old days he had wound his brother round his little 


68 


KIJ^G AETHUR. 


finger; flattered him — cajoled him — and finally fleeced him 
out of every halfpenny he had. All right, of course : for 
were they not brothers? And have not a man^s own family 
the first claim upon him, no matter whether they deserve it 
or not? So reason many excellent and virtuous folk. Are 
they right — or wrong? 

Poor Austin the wife muttered, in pity rather than 
in anger, as she thought of the two closeted together, and 
what harm might possibly ensue. And then Arthur came 
with his entreating “ Up — up!^^ and the clinging of his in- 
nocent arms. 

“ My darling cried Susannah, almost sobbing. ‘‘ No 
— blood is not thicker than water — unless love goes with it, 
and respect, and honor. My boy— my own boy!^^ she put 
back the curls and looked straight down into the pure, 
cloudless, infant eyes. ‘‘ Be a good boy — ^grow up a good 
man^ — and no one will ever ask how you were born.^^ 

She allowed herself a brief rest in giving Arthur his din- 
ner, and smiled to see how before he eat a mouthful himself 
he insisted on feeding the dog and the cat, and even offered 
a morsel to the woolly lamb — his pet plaything, which always 
stood on the table beside him. The boy is father to the 
man;’^ and Susannah had already detected in her baby 
many a trait of character which all the education in the 
world could never have put into him. Even at two years 
old there was a natural courtesy about “ King Arthur; 
an instinct of tenderness to all helpless things. And 
Susannah was far-sighted enough to be soothed and cheered. 
The dread, which every mother must have with every child, 
lest it should not grow up as she could wish, was in her 
ease doubled and trebled; for of necessity she was ever on 
the watch for hereditary qualities, mental and physical, 
which must be modified and guarded against. And yet, 
perhaps, this battle with unknown evils was not worse than 
the pang which some parents must feel, to see their own or 
others^ faults reappearing in their child. 


KING AKTHUR. 


69 


‘‘ If 1 were Mrs. Halbert Trevena — and my son grew up 
like his father!^' thought Susannah, with a shudder; and 
almost thanked God that her child was not her own — or he 
might have been hke his uncle. 

But little Arthur — ^blessed child ! — feared no future and 
no past. He was perfectly happy in his sunshiny nursery 
— the room in which the late rector had died, after inhab- 
iting it for fifty years, and which the servants had been half 
afraid of, till the baby-voice exorcised all ghosts.. There 
the little “King^^ reigned supreme, with his two dumb 
companions. They lived in mysterious but perfect har- 
mony — dog, cat, and child. They played together, fed to- 
gether, slept together, for often Susannah would come in 
and find Arthur lying in the rug with his head on the dog^s 
neck and the cat in his arms — all three sound asleep. 

It was always hard to tear herself from that pleasant 
room; where two years of firm control and careful love had 
made a naturally healthy and sweet-tempered baby into a 
thoroughly good child; so that his mother and Manette had 
rarely any trouble with him, beyond the ordinary little 
vagaries of childhood — the worst being a tendency to cry 
after ‘‘ Mammy, whenever he saw her preparing to leave 
him — as now. 

“ Mammy mu%t go — she must have her dinner, my boy; 
but she will come back directly afterward. She promises 

Already the infant mind had taken in the fact that 
‘‘ Mammy ^s promises were always to be relied on— that 
mammy meant what she said — and did it. And though he 
still could not talk much, Arthur understood every word 
she said, and obeyed it too; for absolute obedience was the 
first lesson Susannah had taught her child. The little face 
cleared, the detaining arms relaxed; he toddled back to his 
four-footed friends, and made himself quite happy. No 
sorrow lasts long at two years old. 

But Mrs. Trevena, the instant she shut the nursery door, 
felt her cares leap back upon her with double fierceness. 


70 


KING ARTHUR. 


As she arranged her dress at the glass, she thought of that 
‘‘ very handsome person ” — her sister-in-law, not in envy, 
but in pity; wondering what was the real truth about her 
and about the marriage; for all Hahs statements had to be 
guessed at rather than believed. He had never held facts 
in the least degree necessary. 

She looked out into the garden, expecting to see the 
brothers sauntering round it, for the rector was always 
proud to show his garden. Well he might be: for it was a 
perfect picture, with its green lawn in front, its back- 
ground of stately trees, and its kitchen-garden at the side 
— a regular old English kitchen-garden, where flowers, fruit, 
and vegetables all flourished together. Polyanthus and 
auriculas edged the beds where the young pease were rising 
in green rows, and the high south wall, sheltered and sunny, 
was one mass of peach, apricot, and nectarine blossoms. 
But nobody admired them — the garden was deserted. 
Susannah went straight to the study, and there found her 
husband — alone. 

‘‘ Hal has just gone out, but he will be back to dinner; 
unless, as he says, he flnds ‘ metal more attractive. ^ Which 
is not likely, as he knows nobody in these parts. He came 
direct from London, and must go back again there — im- 
mediately. 

Mr. Trevena spoke lightly, but with a certain depreca- 
tion of manner, which attracted his wife^s notice. 

“ Immediately means to-morrow, I suppose?^ ^ 

Or perhaps to-night. Poor Hal! He is very poor, my 
dear. We ought to be kind to him. 

“ I wish to be kind to him — if he deserves it. " 

He may do so. It is never too late to mend. And, 
my Susannah — ^you remember the command, ‘ seventy times 
seven. ^ 

Susannah, feeling almost like a wretch — a hard-hearted, 
unchristian wretch— clasped the long-beloved hand, gener- 


KIKG ARTHUR. • 71 

ons as a child — and often as unwise in its generosity. But 
that instant something aroused her suspicions. 

Why is your desk open, Austin? Shall I lock it for 
you? Your check-book is in it?"*^ 

“ Stop a minute, dear. That check-hook — Hal really 
had not a halfpenny, though his remittances from Australia 
are due next week. He will repay me — I am sure he will; 
so I gave him a small sum — you wonT mind, dear? It was 
very little.-’^ 

‘‘Howmuch?^" . V.; - > 

“ Only twenty pounds. 

“ Twenty-five pounds was all we had in the bank; and it 
will be six weeks before our next dividends are due. 

This was all Susannah said — what good was it to say any- 
thing jnore? But she dropped her husband^s hand and sat 
down, in passive acquiescence to fate. The old thing all 
over again! the same quiet endurance, but none the less 
the same bitter, resentful pain. All the bitterer that there 
was nothing actually to resent. Austin^s invariable sweet- 
ness — his unbounded love for her — his trust in her, almost 
as implicit as a child^s — she could not be angry with him. 

I am so sorry, my dear,^^ said he penitently, but I 
had no idea of the state of our finances. As Hal says — it 
is you who manage everything. I will ask him to take a 
smaller check — say just five pounds — when he comes back 
again. 

‘‘When he comes back again repeated Susannah bit- 
terly. “ He will not come back. 

Hor did he. They waited dinner — ^half an hour — an hour 
— Austin was so certain that his brother had ‘ ‘ turned over 
a new leaf — except, perhaps, in punctuality at meals. 
They then sent down to the village in search of “ the gen- 
tleman who had been at the rectory not saying “ the 
rector ^s brother, lest he might be found at the public- 
house — though that was unlikely, drink not being one of 
HaTs besetting sins. But thev found him nowhere. He 


72 


KING AKTHUR. 


had vanished — probably by some field-path, to the nearest 
railway station — with the check in his pocket, and nothing 
more was heard of him for years. 


CHAPTER IV. 

, “ Happy is the nation which has no history/^ and happy 
is the family without any startling incidents to break the 
smooth current of its uneventful years. 

Such, for a long time, was the lot of the little family at 
the rectory — really a family now — ^father, mother and 
child. And the child brought hope with it — hope and in- 
terest and joy in life. Sometimes Susannah, looking back 
upon old days, especially the dark days after her little baby 
died, wondered how she could have borne them. 

She had an easier life now in many ways than she had 
ever known. Of money — alas! how the lack of it, or the 
wrong use of it, strikes at the very root of family peace ! 
— of money there was enough, though nothing to spare, for 
with a larger income came heavier claims, as must always 
be the case with a clergyman. Still, the sharp struggle of 
poverty was over forever with Austin and Susannah: and 
they soon grew to love dearly the pretty rectory, and simple 
country parish, which had been to them a refuge, though 
late, from the storms of life, and where they were content to 
lie at anchor for the rest of their days. 

Of course, no human lives can be quite free from cares, 
and they had theirs; but in most lives, if we investigate 
them, far fewer troubles come from without than from 
within; and the Trevenas had known enough of real sor- 
rows never to invent for themselves imaginary or unneces- 
sary ones. They were glad of happiness, and made the 
most of it whenever it came. 

For days, weeks, months, Austin expected his brother's 
reappearance with a nervous anxiety — a mingled hope and 


KIKG ARTHUK. 


73 


fear that was trying enough to his wife. But Hal never did 
reappear, or make any sign of existence. Austin ^s hope and 
Susannah^ s fear — a double fear now, since that truly 
“ wicked look which she had caught directed against her 
child — ^gradually subsided. 

Also another unspoken dread, which when Arthur grew 
up from ‘‘the beautif idlest baby that ever was seen/’ 
whom all the village was proud of, into a really splendid 
boy, began to dawn upon his adopted mother. What if 
his real mother should by and by crave after the treasure 
she had thrown away, and institute a search for him? Sup- 
pose she, or her emissaries, should find him, lie in wait for 
him, perhaps steal him — one or two stories of kidnapped 
children were in the newspapers just then, of which she 
read every line with a thrill of sympathetic anguish. 

And once, when Manette and Arthur were missing for 
three hours, having contrived to lose themselves in a prim- 
rose wood, they came back, hungry and happy, laden with 
primroses, to find Mrs. Trevena white as death, sitting on a 
gravestone in the church-yard,having walked miles and miles 
in every direction in search of her child. She clasped him to 
her heart in such a passion of love and tears that Mr. Tre- 
vena, who came out for his evening stroll just in time to 
see the happy denouement of this temporary tragedy, was 
quite perplexed. 

“ My dear, it all comes from your vivid imagiuation. 
Don’t sup sorrow with a long spoon. He is a dear child, 
I own that,” and the rector patted kindly the curly head 
which nestled on his wife’s shoulder. “ But I don’t think 
anybody is likely to steal him. Babies are as plentiful as 
blackberries, and you must remember, Susannah, that every- 
body does not consider him as valuable as you do.” 

She laughed, confessing she had been “ very silly. ” But 
for weeks she scarcely let Arthur out of her sight; and Ma- 
nette had strict orders never to go beyond the garden, the 
village, and the path leading to the great house, and on 


74 


KING ARTHUR. 


no account to answer any one she met who might question 
her about the boy. 

This was literally the only event of the first six years of 
Arthur^s life — the six happy infantine years, all pleasant- 
ness and play, with no lessons to learn, for he was not a 
precocious child, and his mother preferred physical to men- 
tal development. His education had begun indeed, as it 
can begin with every child, and should, even at six months 
old; but it was the unconscious education, imbibed daily 
and hourly from everything aromid him. 

By and by, life became to little Arthur a perpetual ques- 
tion, which he always expected liis mother to answer. She 
did answer, taking unwearied trouble to satisfy the opening 
mind and heart, never throwing the child back upon him- 
self, or stifling his natural curiosity about the wonderful 
world he had come to. But sometimes she found herself 
fairly puzzled and obliged to own, frankly and humbly, “ I 
donT know,^^ upon which he once turned upon her with 
the grave answer, “ But, mammy, you ought to know.” A 
rebuke that made her study the question — something about 
a steam-engine — and tell him all about it next day. 

Dr. Franklin^s saying, when they were discussing the 
future of her baby, ‘‘ I donT know whether you will edu- 
cate him, but I am quite certain he will educate you,' ^ came 
back upon her often as an amusing truth. She knew her- 
self to be a better woman, and certainly her husband was 
no worse man, nor a less happy man, for having that bit of 
continual sunshine, “ a child in the house. 

‘‘I wish Doctor Franklin could see us,” she often 
thought and said. But the worthy Kentuckian seemed to 
have melted away into thin air. For two or three years 
they got a letter from him, generally about the time of his 
godson^s birthday, hoping the little fellow was quite well, 
and doing credit to his adopted family; but the letters were 
brief and formal; the doctor was a practical man, and no 
great scribe. It scarcely surprised the Trevenas when, 


KING AETHUK. 75 

after awhile, his letters ceased, and theirs gained no an- 
swer. 

“ Perhaps he is dead,^’ Susannah thought, sadly, “ and 
my boy has one friend less in the world. 

Arthur had no lack of friends now, at any rate. He was 
a most popular little person. Everybody spoiled him; 
except that love never spoils. It is the alternation of harsh- 
ness and weak indulgence which ruins many a poor, help- 
less child, who is made detestable to everybody not through 
its own fault, but the fault of its relations. 

With “ King Arthur it was not so. His mother^s' 
tender hand knew how to hold the reins firmly. Her yea 
was yea — her nay, nay; and the child soon found it out. 
His will— and he had a pretty strong c ne, poor little man ! 
— was early taught that it must be used, not to govern oth- 
ers, but himself. Consequently, though impetuous, pas- 
sionate, and full of boyish mischief and fun, he vras neither 
a naughty nor a disagreeable child. From the “ big 
house, with its constantly changing tenants, down to every 
cottage in the parish, everybody made a pet of ‘‘ King 
Arthur. 

So did his ‘‘ papa,” when the boy grew old enough to be 
interesting. Perhaps, under no circumstances would Mr. 
Trevena have been a model father; he was too self-abr 
sorbed, too much of the student, and it was by a curious 
natural instinct that Arthur always called him “ papa,^^ 
and Mrs. Trevena “ mother. But he was very fond of 
the little fellow, who always amused and never troubled 
him, as ordinary papas are troubled by their offspring. And 
his kindness, his invariable sweet temper, and even his little 
oddities, attached the cliild to him almost as much as if he 
had been really his own. For to the young the “ tie of 
blood means nothing; and kindness, tenderness, the habit 
of propinquity, everything. A child often loves its nurse 
far better than its mother — an unheeding, unloving mother; 
and many parents and childrenj separated of necessity for 


.76 


KING ARTHUR. 


years, have felt bitterly that with all their efforts it was ah- 
solutely impossible to reunite the broken bond. 

But Arthur and his adopted parents lived so happily to- 
gether, that everybody outside seemed to have forgotten he 
was not their own; and indeed they almost forgot it them- 
selves, till something happened which startled Susannah 
into mieasy previsions. Long after it was past, she, like 
another holy mother, “ pondered these things in her 
heart,^^ and thanked God she had had strength to meet the 
difficulty; to face the first of many inevitable ills, and to 
face it in time. 

Arthur came in to her, one day, with his poor little nose 
bleeding, and his whole frame quivering with passion and 
excitement. He had been playing in the garden with che 
gardener^s boy, not a bad boy in his way; and at six years 
old Mrs. Trevena held class distinctions unnecessary; but 
there had evidently been ^om.Q fracas between the children. 

“ My boy — how could Bob let you hurt yourself? He 
was the eldest; he ought to have taken care of you. 

‘‘He shall never take care of me again. I hate Bob! 
And I didnH hurt myself. We were fighting. But IVe 
hurt him twice as much as he hurt me.^^ 

^ And the little fists were clinched, and the chest heaved 
with rage. The “ devil ” was roused in the heretofore 
“ angel-boy — as from his sweet looks some of the villa- 
gers called him. 

“ You fought? Who began it?^^ said the mother gravely. 

“ I did. Bob told a lie, and I hit liim. ITl hit him 
again to-morrow. “ 

“ Hush!’" said Mrs. Trevena, but wisely abstained from 
any moral lectures till she had soothed her boy’s physical 
sufferings; and he lay in her arms, pale and exhausted, 
angry but quiet, and quite “ good,” with that air of entire 
content which a child of his age finds nowhere if not on the 
mother’s bosom. 


KING ARTHUR. 77 

“ Now, my darling, she whispered, tell me all about 

But Arthur turned his head away, with the deep blush 
of sensitive childhood. 

“ rd rather not telFyou, please, mammy. 

She would not compel him — ifc is right to respect even a 
babyish secret; but she urged tenderly, “ Don^t you think 
you would be happier if you told me?^^ And then it all 
came out. 

“ Bob said what was not true. He told me my papa was 
not my papa, and that my mammy, my own mammy, was 
not my mother. And Hiding his face on her shoulder, 
Arthur once more burst into a passion of sobs. 

Susannah felt as if an arrow had gone through her heart. 
Often and often had she considered this question, and de- 
cided that as soon as ever he could take it in, Arthur must 
be told the whole truth concerning himself. But the diffi- 
culty — the almost impossibility — of making so young a child 
comprehend any difference between adopted and real 
parenthood had caused her to defer this explanation from 
time to time, till some opportune moment should come. It 
had come. There was a brief pause of cowardly shrinking, 
and then she braced herself and seized the chance, which 
to let go by might be fatal. Perfect truthfulness, she had 
all along felt, would be the only safe as well as the only 
right course — for her darling^s sake. 

My boy,^^ she said, “ I am sorry you fought — because 
what Bob said was true. 

Arthur opened wide eyes of incredulous terror. No — 
no! Mammy, I am your child — I am your child. 

‘‘Yes, my darling — my onlydarhng! but not my born 
child — ^you are my adopted child. " 

“ What does that mean?^^ 

“ My chosen child. Nobody cared for you or loved you 
— ^but mammy loved you, mammy chose you. Listen, and 
Iffl tell my boy a little story. 


78 


KIN'G AETHUR. 


It was the quite true story of her finding the bit of 
sweetwilliam, and how she planted it, and watered it, and 
watched it grow into a beautiful root, till she loved it bet- 
ter than any root in her garden. 

As mammy loves me,^'’ said the boy, brightening up 
and taking it all in, as he did any story, with delighted 
eagerness. ‘‘ And mammy chose it — as she did me. Then 
I am mammy^s own child after all. 

“ Always — always!^^ and she strained him to her heart — 
the unmistakable mother ^s heart, where he rested, satisfied. 
Childless mother — motherless child! Surely, He who said 
to John, ‘‘Son, behold thy mother, and to Mary, “ Mother, 
behold thy Son,” often gives a special consecration to such 
relationships. It might be better for many a lonely house- 
hold, many a forlorn child, if there were more of the like. 

Determined not to let the golden moment pass by, but to 
seize this chance of making things clear, so that her boy 
might know all painful facts while so young that he should 
never remember the time when he had not known them, 
Susannah went on to explain how she and “ papa ” had 
found him among the mountains, brought him home to 
the rectory, and made him their son, as he would always 
be; that he must grow up a man — a good man, like papa 
— and take care of them both in their old age. 

“ And if Bob; or any one, ever tells you mammy does 
not love you as some mothers love their sons, say, she loves 
you more — ^because she chose you. ” 

“ As I chose my black kitten when the boys were going 
to drown it?” 

“ Yes! And would you like to hear why mammy called 
you Arthur?” continued she, wishing to drive out all pain 
from the infant mind, and perhaps impress it for life. 

“ Shall I tell you another story?” 

Mother ^s “ Tories^'’ ^ were the unfailing panacea for every 
earthly ill. It is astonishing how much you can make a 
cliild understand if you only put it in words simple enough. 


KING ARTHUR. 


70 


Artliiir already knew all about the wooden horse of Troy, 
Eomulus and Eemus, Queen Berengaria, and Eichard Coear 
de Lion, and even the story of several plays of Shakespeare. 
Now, he listened with wide eyes fixed on that placid heaven, 
the mo therms face; and sucking his two middle fingers — a 
trick he had when supremely happy — hstened to the story 
of King Arthur; the little naked child who was found 
on the sea-coast of Cornwall, and brought up by Merlin. 
(“Was Merlin like my papa^^ interjected Arthur) — how 
the baby grew to be a noble knight, a valiant soldier, and 
at last a king. 

“ Shall I ever be a king, mammy asked the small list- 
ener, with a look so radiant that his weak-mmded mother 
thought he really might have been! Nevertheless she an- 
swered gravely: 

“ No, my boy, I am quite sure you never will be a king 
— except mammy^s King Arthur. And something else, too 
— a good, brave man. Brave men are never ashamed to 
own they are wrong; so weT come and speak to Bob before 
he goes home, and say we both are sorry you fought with 
him, because you know now that he did not tell a lie. 
Come. 

Arthur came. He did not speak to Bob, but his mother 
spoke for him, explaining that “ my son — as she careful- 
ly called him — now knew all about himself; that there 
must be no more references to the subject, and no more 
fighting. He was Master Arthur Trevena, and she should 
dismiss any servant who did not treat him as such. 

Susannah said all this calmly — ^but a sharp inward pain 
was gnawing afc her heart all the while, until she overheard 
Arthur^s Parthian thrust at his discomfited foe. 

“ I wonT fight you again. Bob — and ITl play with you 
to-morrow. I^m a deal better off than you — for your 
mother had to take you whether she hked you or not — my 
mother chose me!^^ 

So off he marched — the httle “ King ” — with a proud 


80 


KIKG ARTItUB. 


and gallant air; holding by his mo therms hand, and entire- 
ly contented with his lot. 

She was contented, too; for now there was no more mys- 
tery — ^her boy would never have the pang of finding out 
suddenly that he was not her boy. d'hough with the sen- 
sitive reticence of childhood, he never referred to the mat- 
ter again, never asked her a single question; but accepted 
with unlimited trust the love in which he lived as in per- 
petual sunshine. Only, night after night, as his mother 
sat down beside him, to tell him “ just one little '’tory 
before he went to sleep — the stoi7 he liked best, and asked 
for oftenest, was that of King Arthur. 

So life went on at the rectory — a smooth, untroubled 
stream — , 

“ The constant stream of love which knew no fall, 

Ne’er roughened by those cataracts and breaks 
Which humor interposed too often makes. ” 

Years afterward, when reading that exquisite poem, Arthur 
recognized — as we do recognize when things are past — the 
picture of his happy childhood, and in' Cowper’s mother 
the portrait of his own. 

Years slipped by — almost like a dream. From the baby 
he grew into the child — the boy — a big boy, though not 
yet a school-boy — for there was no day-school near. Mrs. 
Trevena, who for many years had been a governess, taught 
him all she knew. By and by, Mr. Trevena, inquiring 
anxiously about his Latin and Greek — ^to the rector the one 
necessity of human learning — volunteered to continue both. 
So Arthur, who was neither a genius nor a dunce, but 
something between the t^o — a boy with plenty of brains, 
if he would only use them — gradually approached the time 
when life ceases to be all play, and it begins to dawn upon 
even the idlest boy, or the one most keen after physical en- 
joyments, that there is such a thing as work. 

It did upon Arthur, though only occasionally. He was 


KIKG ARTHUK. 


81 


by no means a model boy. He honestly owned he hated 
his lessons, and only did them to please mother/^ which 
secondary reason she perforce accepted, and made use of to 
his good. Doubtless she would have preferred a studious 
boy to an idle one; but then he was such a good boy, neither 
a prig nor a hypocrite; and sometimes when she saw his 
. strong temptations — ^the exuberant youthful health and the 
joy in it — that pure joy of living which she herself had 
never known— she forgave him everything. 

Perhaps both his adopted parents loved him all the better 
for being so unlike themselves — for bringing into their 
quiet household new elements which othe^ise would have 
been unknown there; young companions, games, athletic 
sports. The Rev. Austin had never played cricket in his 
life; yet after going to see Arthur play, he was allured into 
lending one of his glebe-fields to the village cricket club; 
and would watch them with mild approval many a summer 
evening. And many a winter morning did Mrs. Trevena 
spend beside the large pond at Tawton Abbas — just to see 
Arthur skate. Though she felt sometimes like an old hen 
with one duckling — scarcely able to hide her terror at every 
tumble and every crack on the ice — still she did hide it, 
and gloried in her boy^s height, agility, and grace. Above 
all in his perfect fearlessness, physical and moral. 

Spite of his little faulijs — and he had his share — ^Arthur 
possessed one quality, the root of all good in either man or 
woman — he was not a coward. From iu fancy, the orrry 
fear he knew was the grave rebuke of his mother ^s face; 
generally a silent rebuke, for she rarely scolded and never 
whipped him; but her mute displeasure was more than he 
could stand. It brought him to his right mind at once — to 
the sobbing ‘‘ITl be good, mammy of infancy— to the 
half proud, half humble I^m so sorry, mother,^ ^ of boy- 
hood. The turning away of her face from him was like 
the sun going out of the sky — ^he could not bear it. And 
once when he had to bear it, for two whole days— for his 


S2 


KTNU AKTHUK. 


unconquerable idleness had so vexed her that she put the 
books away, and refused to open them again, his agony of 
distress made him actually ill. It was the turning-point^ 
that contest between parent and child, which if the latter is 
allowed to win, is a defeat — to both — for life. 

Susannah was a very gentle woman; but she could be 
stern, if need be, stern and hard as stone. When, after 
two, nay, three days of being sent to Coventry, and a fourth 
day, when he literally cried himself sick, Arthur came 
humbly, his books under his arm, and implored her to for- 
give him, she replied sadly: 

‘‘ Forgiving is not forgetting. You have made mother '’s 
heart ache as it never ached before. Listen, my boy — for 
you are a boy now, not a baby.-’-’ And she put her hand 
on his shoulder and looked searchingly into his face, as if 
longing to find there, what people can not always find in 
their very own children, the qualities they themselves most 
value. Arthur — for these twelve years papa and I have 

done our very best for you. We can not do ni6re. The 
rest you must do for yourself.’’ 

“ How do you mean, mammy dear? Are you going to 
send me away — to school?” 

‘‘ No — ^for we could not afford it. How could papa, 
with his small income, pay a hundred and fifty a year for 
your schooling — and you to be as idle then as you are now? 
It would not be right. I would not let him do it. No, if 
you want education you must get it for yourself — or go 
without it and grow up a dunce. ’ ’ 

‘‘ And then you will wish you had left me to die at the 
road-side, instead of planting me like your sweet-william 
root. Perhaps you are right, mother.” 

Susannah started — she thought Arthur had long for- 
gotten that little story; but one never knows what a child 
forgets or remembers. 

There was a pause of pain — and then she said, “ My son, 
I shall never wish things different from what they have 


Kina ARTHUR. 


83 


been. And I am content with yon just as you are, if you 
will only make the best of what you are. Do you think 
King Arthur would ever have been a soldier and a king, if 
he had not learned his lessons?^ ^ 

“ Did he learn lessons? And did he like them?^^ asked 
Arthur dolefully — so dolefully that Mrs. Trevena could not 
help laughing. At which the young sinner ventured to 
laugh too — kissed and hugged her, vehemen tly promising 
amendment. She shook her head — he had promised so 
often, and forgot it next day. How many “ grown-ups 
do the same! It sometimes struck Susannah as a curious 
fact that'while all allowances are made for grown-up peo- 
ple, none are made for children. Though hard as the 
nether millstone in keeping Arthur in the right way — never 
for a moment pretending that wrong was right — she had 
great pity for his little aberrations; his laziness, his featlier- 
headedness, and the like. And when she looked at his 
broad brow and thoughtful eyes — inherited. Heaven only 
knew from whom! — she*took heart of grace that Heaven 
would make all right in time. 

One never knows when an arrow strikes home. “ In the 
morning sow thy seed — in the evening withhold not thy 
hand.^\ Such had been Susannah ^s principle all her days. 
She did her best; and then she rested in hope — which 
sometimes died — most often died! — but now and then it 
lived and blossomed — as now. 

One day — after a week of most astonishing industry, 
Arthur said suddenly, ‘‘ Mother, you told me I was to get 
education for myself. How am I to get it?^^ 

She was not taken by surprise; for years she had pondered 
the question — as she did everything that concerned her boy^s 
future. She had said truly, that to send Arthur to a 
boarding-school was impossible. Even if possible, it would 
scarcely have been right. Her husband in his old age 
w^ould need all his own money; he must not be stinted in 
anything for tlie sake of a son — who was not . his son. 


84 


Kma ARTHUR. 


Passionately as she loved her boy, Susannah held the balance 
of justice even. So she answered firmly: 

‘‘ Arthur, if you are to grow up a clever man like papa 
you mast do as he did — ^you must get to be a Winchester 
boy — and then take yourself to New College, Oxford, with 
a Winchester scholarship. Mother would so like to see you 
in cap and gown!^^ 

“ Would you?^^ said he, with the sudden look which she 
loved to see — the bright, eager, purpose-like look — “ Then, 
ITl try. 

They went into the matter at once. Mr. Trevena, who 
at the mention of Winchester pricked up his ears like an 
old war-horse, needed little persuasion to take his wife and 
son to see his old haunts and revive his old acquaintance- 
ships. One of the masters happened to be a school-fellow 
of fifty years back; they fraternized joyfully, and wandered 
about together — Mrs. Trevena and Arthur following — 
through the chapel and courts, the school-rooms and play- 
grounds, dear to all Wykehamites, where generation after 
generation of boys have worked and played and passed 
away. Here and there were mementos of some of them 
who had made themselves famous . in after-life, and of 
others — Arthur^s eye brightened, and his mother’s heart 
trembled, as they stood looking at them — who had died 
early, mostly on the field of battle, only a year or two after 
being Winchester boys. 

Susannah was an ambitious woman — what mother of a 
son would not her When Arthur whispered to her, I 
mean to be a Winchester boy,” she pressed his arm in 
silence as they walked together — he very proud of being 
fully as tall as she. They understood one another, and 
were happy. 

This was the bright side of things; but there was another 
side, of which she had had prevision, but never so clearly 
as to-day. 

The master stood explaining to her various things— while 


KIKG ARTHUR. 


85 


Mr. Trevena went to show Arthur the picture of the Faith- 
ful Servant. She learned that a certificate of baptism must 
be sent in, to prove the boy^s age — over twelve and under 
thirteen — and that the examination, in which there were 
often nearly a hundred candidates for fourteen scholai’ships, 
was about the middle of J uly. 

‘‘ My son will be thirteen next June,^^ said Susannah — 
who always took care to say “ my son to strangers. 

“ Then he has only one chance. He will have to work 
hard for it — but no doubt he will. He is — ^glancing 
carelessly at Arthur, who stood a few yards off, and making 
the superficial remark that so many think proper — he is 
so very like his father. 

Whether the boy overheard, she could not tell — if he 
had, no doubt he would, in his simplicity, only have thought 
it ‘‘ funny that he should resemble his ^ray, stooping, 
elderly papa; but Susannah felt herself grow hot all over. 
She could not answer — any explanation at that moment 
was impossible — ^yet she felt like a deceiver — acting inevi- 
tably, righteously, but yet a deceiver. And how would her 
boy feel? not now perhaps — he was too young to take it in 
— but by and by? 

“ I ought to explain — she began, with a desperate firm- 
ness. At that moment Mr. Trevena and Arthur came up, 
rendering explanation impossible. The train was nearly 
due : they were late — as the good rector had a trick of ' 
being — only a minute remained for polite adieus, and they 
hurried away. 

But as Susannah sat silent, watching the landscape whirl 
past, in that noisy peace which allows such time for think- 
ing — a new anxiety awoke in her heart. 

She had resolved to send her boy to school, for she felt 
he must go; his nature required the spur of emulation to 
learn well; but she had not taken in all that this involved. 
Her neighbors, the simple folk of Tawton Magna, had long 
since accepted the truth, and then forgot — as the Trevenas 


86 


KIKG ARTHUR. 


had almost forgotten themselves — that Arthur was not 
their own child. Not a word to the contrary was now 
ever said to him or them. But in the wider world to which 
Arthur was going, and must go, things were sure to be said 
— cruel things, perhaps — from which his mother could no 
longer protect him. 

Had he been a girl, it would have been different. She 
could then have kept her child beside her; no need to go 
to school at all; or to pass from the shelter of the mother^ s 
wing, except into some honorable happy home, where she 
was loved for herself — married for herself. Many a King 
Cophetua lives to bless the day he wooed his “beggar- 
maid,^^ and especially, if she has no blood relations! But 
a boy must face the world — stand on his own feet — fight 
his own battles. What if Arthur’s school-fellows came to 
find out his hi^ory? how they might torment him! — there 
is nothing crueller than your ordinary school-boy. How 
lads with real fathers and mothers might jeer at “ Nobody’s 
child ”! 

Susannah clinched her hands under her shawl. She felt 
she should like to do something — to hurt somebody, who 
dared to hurt her child. The “ wild animal ” feeling, 
which makes the tamest creatures dangerous when their 
young are attacked, came into her, till she almost laughed 
at herself, and then could have cried at her own helpless- 
‘ ness. Yet tears were idle. The thing was inevitable — lie 
must 'bear it. How could she help him to bear it? 

“ Tell the truth and shame the devil ” was, as ever, was 
the only chance for her boy; and after all, he was a boy — 
“with hands to war and fingers to fight” — as old King 
David had, and blessed the Lord for. Alas! in this our 
world they are only too necessary! Arthur had moral 
courage too, as had been lately proved when a neighboring 
curate, hearing the boy’s voice in church, offered to teach 
him singing, and music too; and, in spite of his compan- 
ions, the young millionaires at Taw ton Abbas, calling it 


ARTHUR. 


87 


“ girlish/^ he persisted in steadily strumming on the rec- 
tory pianOj, and never missing an hour of the village choir- 
practice. Music, in fact, was the only thing he really 
worked at, with all his heart in it. Once his mother — list- 
ening to the lovely boy-voice, and hearing from the ritual- 
istic curate, Mr. Hardy, what a remarkable talent he had 
in that direction — recalled, almost with a pang, the story 
of that opera-singer who had run away from Milan — who 
might have crossed the St. Gothard, and stopped at Ander- 
matt-!-who might have been — But speculations were idle 
— worse than idle — dangerous. She shut up all these things 
in her heart, seeing that, however it came, her boy^s talent 
for music was there, and irrepressible. Nor did she-try to 
repress it; she only insisted that he should work, not idle 
at it; and do his other work steadily, meantime. 

He did. Mr. Hardy, the musical curate, who, like many 
more, combined music and mathematics, offered to helj^ 
him in his Euclid and algebra; the rector taught him Latin 
and Greek; his mother, and the faithful Manette, now pro- 
moted from nurse to cook, and likely to be a fixture at the 
rectory, helped him in his French. So all was in train for 
the Winchester examination, to which he must go up in 
J uly — a big boy of thirteen — for those three anxious days 
which would probably decide his lot for life. 

As the time approached, Mrs. Travena, spite of her 
smooth brow and quiet smile, would thankfully “have 
given worlds — as the phrase is — not to put it off — it was 
her way always to face things — but to know that it was safe 
over. 

Another thing which she had to face she did put off, un- 
intentionally, till, the very last day. Then having settled 
everything, and even packed her boy^s box and her own — 
they were to stay together with Mr. Trevena^s old school- 
fellow during the three days of examination — she and Ar- 
thur walked up and down together along their favorite 
walk, the peach-tree walk, under a high soqth wa-U, Su- 


88 


KING AKTHUR. 


sannah was now growing old enough to love the shelter of 
a south wall and the smooth ease of a gravel walk. But 
age had no terrors, for was not her boy’s strong arm round 
her waist, and his bright face beside her? In his young life 
she lived anew, perhaps even a happier life than her own. 

‘‘If you are tired, mammy, let us sit down.” Arthur 
always saw when his mother was tired, quicker even than 
her husband did; but then he was such a practical boy, 
and not a bit of a bookworm. “ You stop here in the sum- 
mer-house, and I’ll help Bob Bates to gather the peas for 
dinner.”- 

“No, not yet,” for she had something to say which must 
be said before he went to Winchester, only it was difficult 
to begin. “ Bob is a big boy now, almost as tall as his fa- 
ther.” 

“ Bob is ever so much older than I am,” said Arthur, a 
little aggrieved. “ I’ll be as tall as my papa some day.” 

“ I hope so, dear.” Then suddenly facing the evil, 
though it made her heart beat almost with the pulsations 
of her youth, “ Does Bob Bates ever speak to you now 
about what you fought over, years ago?” 

“ What was that, mammy? I forget. No,” with a quick 
blush, the sensitive blush so ready to con^e and go on his 
fair face. “ No, I think I remember. It was about my 
not being papa’s own boy, and yours. No, nobody ever 
says a word to me now.” 

“ That is well.” 

They walked on in silence, she thinking how best to put 
the next thing she had to say, when he saved her the say- 
ing of it. 

“ Mother, if anybody speaks to me like that at Winches- 
ter, what am I to do? Shall I fight them?” 

She paused a minute. It was so hard, so hard! 

“ No, my dear. J see no good in fighting. Nobody 
means you any harm^ and nothing they say can alter any- 


KTKG ARTHUR. 89 

thing. It is the truth. No brave man need be afraid of 
the truth. I am sure King Arthur never was.^^ 

“ Did anybody ever say to him — what Bob Bates used to 
say to me?’^ 

“ Very likely, for his parentage was never known. But 
he was such a noble knight in himself that nobody ever 
cared to ask where he sprung from. It will be the same 
with you, if you grow up a good man.^^ 

‘‘ But I shall never be a king, and have Knights of the 
Bound Table. 

‘‘lam afraid not. What would you like to be.^^-’ 

Now the great event in the boy^s life was his having been 
lately taken by his friend the High Church curate to Exe- 
ter, where he heard an oratorio and an opera. It should 
not have been a pang, and yet it was — when he answered 
with enthusiasm, “ I should like to be an opera-singer!^-’ 
his mother started as if she had been shot. 

But she answered calmly, “ Well, my son, boys often 
make resolves, and break them. I knew one little fellow 
who was determined to be lord-chancellor, but he changed 
his mind and said he would be an omnibus-driver. How- 
ever, just now, you can only be one thing — a Winchester 
boy. Try for that. 

“ I will,’-’ said Arthur firmly, “ begause I know mother 
would like it.” 

“ Thank you,” pressing the arm that was round her 
waist. Youths often like to make love to a little mother, 
no bigger than themselves. She looked at him, the boy 
that any mother might be proud of — that any childless 
mother might have craved after with frantic longing — and 
that his own mother had thrown away. No matter! he 
was Tier son now — hers, Susannah’s — by every right of 
justice and duty, if not nature; and no power on earth 
should ever snatch him from her. 

She was not sorry to have to take him to Winchester her- 
self, and make friends for him there, whether he succeeded 


KIKG ARTHUR. 


90 • 

or failed; she had begun to feel that their shut-up life 
would never do for a growing boy. He would need com- 
panions; and their only near neighbors^ except the villag- 
ers, were the tenants of Tawton Abbas; families continually 
changing, for the idiot heir of the Damerels still lived on, 
and it was said that when he died there would be a grand 
fight between two distant cousins for the title and estate. 
Meanwhile, the lovely old house was sometimes let, some- 
times stood empty, and the rectory family had the run of 
the park and gardens. But of society they had almost 
none. This did not matter to Austin and Susannah, but it 
did to Arthur, who, now risen above the level of Bob 
Bates, often wished for somebody to play with — somebody 
young. And therefore, though parting with him would 
be like cutting off her right hand, his mother had deter- 
mined to send him to school. 

Mr. Hardy and papa both say you can pass if you try. 
You must try. Think how grand it would be to have 
your name on the Roll. 

“ And to go and live a,t Winchester, where I can hear 
the cathedral service every day if I like, and learn to sing 
in the college chapel. 

“ You could learn anything, my boy, if you would only 
give your mind to it-r-you idle monkey. But you will work 
now? YouTl do your very best, and if you fail — well — 
weTl try something else — 

“ ‘ But screw your courage to the sticking place, 

And we’ll not fail!’ ” 

“Bravo, mother! You are such a brick! You ought 
to be a boy yourself.'’-’ 

They laughed, thoroughly understanding one another. 
Then not sorry for a brief pause of solitude, in the nervous 
strain which was greater than she knew, she sent Arthur 
off for a walk across the park, and sat down under the 
acacia tree on the rectory lawn, watching idly the swallows 


KING AKTHUR. 


91 


flying over the glebe-meadows, where the cows were feed- 
ing, and the trees stood motionless in the summer silence of 
the newly shorn, fresh, green fields. 

A peaceful, lovely picture! grown each year more famil- 
iar and more dear. Susannah hoped to watch it year after 
year until she died. For she felt sure her husband would 
never leave Tawton Magna. He was not ambitious — had 
no desire of church promotion. He, too, was quite content 
with his life. Her eyes followed him, sauntering up and 
down the peach-tree walk, writing in his head his next 
Sunday^ s sermon. She thought of all his goodness, gentle- 
ness, and tenderness, not only to her but to her boy; and it 
seemed as if no woman ever had a happier life than she — a 
life to which no change could ever come. 

At that minute — it is strange how often these coinci- 
dences happen — Arthur came running to her with a letter. 

‘‘ A boy brought it. I met him at the gate. He says 
he has to wait for an answer. 

‘‘ Take it to papa,^^ she was just saying carelessly, when 
something struck her as familiar in the handwriting — terri- 
bly familiar. Many people know what it is — the heart-* 
sinking at sight of one particular handwriting, which has 
been the curse of the family for a life-time. 

“ Mother, you look so white! What is the matter?^'’ 

‘‘ Nothing, dear boy. I will take papa his letter. 

It was from Hal Trevena. He ^^as in a small public- 
house of the neighboring town, with his wife and child, aiid 
without a halfpenny. 

So he said, at least, adding that the inconvenience was 
but temporary, as they were on their way to some wealthy 
friends of Mrs. Trevena^ s residing in Wales. Only the 
said Mrs. Trevena had broken down on the way, and lay 
dangerously ill, which was, the husband added, most in- 
convenient. "" He begged for “a small loan,^" and that 
his brother would go and see him. 

‘‘ Poor Hal — ^poor Hal — of course I must go/^ said the 


92 


KING ARTHUE. 


rector, with a deprecating, distressed look. ‘‘ And you 
would not object — to my giving him a little money.^'’'’ 

‘^No, of course not.^^ She took her husband ^s hand, 
and sat down on the bench beside him, in a sort of dull 
submission to fate. The roses were blooming, the bees hum- 
ming in them, over the pretty summer-house; the swal- 
lows were darting across the high blue sky, and the cows 
feeding in the meadow, just as they had done ten minutes 
ago, when she had felt so happy, so thankful to God for 
her happiness. And now — 

Poor Hal,^^ repeated Austin uneasily. ‘‘ A sick wife, 
does he say? and he never was used to illness, any more 
than 1. But I suppose I ought to go to them.^^ 

Susannah thought a minute, then she said, Shall I go 
instead of you?’^ 

“ Oh, if you would! My dear, how kind of you!” 

Mrs. Trevena never answered. She knew it was not 
kindness at all, only a desperate preventive against danger 
which she foresaw, and could meet, but Austin could not. 

So very kind,^^ he repeated. “ But you forget — you 
were to take the boy to Winchester to-morrow. ” 

Mr. Hardy would take him instead of me. And he 
might perhaps be as well alone. He must learn to face the 
world some time,” she added, with a sad kind of smile. 

At any rate, I wiP go now, and come back as soon as I 
can. 

But she did not come back. It was only a half-hour^s 
walk, yet Arthur and his papa sat expecting her in vain, 
hour after hour — till — almost for the first time in his life 
— the boy had to go to bed without his mother^s good-night 
kiss. Late, almost at midnight, a messenger arrived, 
bringing two letters; one to Arthur — the first he had ever 
received — explaining that he must go to Winchester like 
a man ” with Mr. Hardy, and do his very best, so that 
whether he succeeded or failed in getting the scholarship, 
his mother might be proud of her boy. 


KmO AETHUR. 


93 


To her husband she wrote even more briefly. HaFs 
wife is dying. Her little girl — ^it was a girl, not a boy — ^is 
her only nurse. We must take them in. Tell Manette to 
get ready the spare room, and as soon as Arthur and Mr. . 
Hardy are gone, send a fly here. There is little luggage — 
he has spent everything they had in the world. She will 
be better dead, poor soul! — but she ought to die peacefully 
in our house. 

This was all Susannah wrote — or said. 

Next day, in the dusk of the evening, her husband 
watched her superintend the carrying upstairs of what 
seemed little more than a bundle of clothes, with a white 
ghastly face appearing out of it — that dying face which, it 
was plain to see, would never come down-stairs any more. 
Closely following came a little girl ; a small elfish creature, 
with thin, starved, withered features, and great dark eyes 
— she seemed all eyes — watching the sick mother with a 
kind of fierce jealousy, as if to protect her from everybody 
else. 

The husband and father did not appear. 

“ He will be here at supper-time — did he not say so, 
Nanny observed Mrs. Trevena, taking the child ^s hand. 

He said so — but we never believe what papa says,’^ 
was the answer — with the cruel candor of ten years old. 

So, there they were under her roof — Hal Trevena and 
his family. And her own boy^’s room was empty; and 
throughout the house was that terrible silence which marks 
the absence of a child — a noisy, merry, happy child. 

She had done her duty — the duty which lay to her hand, 
so plain that she could not choose but do it; yet, as she laid 
her head down for the few minutes of sleep that she was 
able to snatch on the sofa, in the chamber of the dying 
woman, Susannah^ s pillow was wet with her tears. 


94 


KIKG ARTHUK. 


CHAPTER V. 

The next two days went by in quiet — hopeless, passion- 
less quiet. Life yet lingered in Halbert Trevena^s wife; 
but they all knew--and she knew too, they thought — that 
nothing could save her. She was in the last stage of con- 
sumption, or rather atrophy; brought on, no doubt, by 
misery and privation. By making dives and guesses at 
truth through a mass of superincumbent fiction, Susannah 
gained from her brother-in-law something of the family liis- 
tory. 

It appeared that Nanny — christened Anastasia — was 
their only child; the “ son and heir,'’^ though not quite 
non-existent, having died soon after his birth. The mill- 
ionaire father-in-law was also a creation of Captain Tre- 
vena^s imagination; or, at any rate, whatever money the 
old man possessed had speedily been drained from him by 
his aristocratic son-in-law. During his life-time he had 
protected his daughter and grandchild as well as he could; 
when he died both fell helplessly into the hands of that 
personage, to whom, unless he altogether outrages moral- 
ity, the law persists in giving the rights — though he fulfills 
none of the duties — of husband and father.'’^ The wife, 
a feeble creature, born to suffer and complain, had clung 
to him, probably because she had nothing else to cling to; 
and so they had drifted on, sinking or swimming. Heaven 
knew how, or how long — it was useless to inquire — till they 
came to England and to Tawton Magna. 

“ Not that we meant to inflict ourselves upon you, ex- 
cept for a short visit,^^ said Captain Trevena, with great 
dignity. We thought of wintering at Bath — we were on 
our way thither when my dear invalid broke down. But I 
hope she will be better soon.’^ 

‘‘ She will be better soon,’"’ re2)eated Susannah; but he 


KIKG ARTHUE. 


95 


either could not or would not understand her meaning, and 
it was no use to press the fact; or the other one, that Taw- 
ton was not on the road to Bath at all. But fact and 
fiction were inextricably mingled in Captain Trevena^s 
conversation. Susannah^s only desire was to keep him out 
of his wife^s sick-room — which was not difficult — he so 
hated illness; and let her slip quietly into that peace of 
death which was far better than life. 

Poor woman ! — what sort of woman she was or had been, 
mattered little now. Her sister-in-law inquired nothing. 
She did carefully all that could be done for the remark- 
ably fine woman — who never could have been anything 
but a plain and rather common-looking person; she held 
with her firm soft clasp the dying hand — evidently not a 
lady^’s hand — and so thin that once, in washmg it, the wed- 
dmg-ring slipped off. 

DonT put it on again — ^keep it for Nanny, was all the 
sick woman said; as if relieved at dying without that badge 
of slavery. 

She never asked for her husband, but only for Nanny. 
And the child, who had none of the looks and ways of 
childhood, scarcely ever left her bedside. Nanny was 
small, dark, and plain; exceedingly like her mother; ‘‘ not 
a bit of a Trevena ” — ^her father said, apologetically. He 
evidently did not care for her. Nor, candidly speaking, 
did Susannah herself feel much drawn to the little girl, ex- 
cept for her entire devotion to her poor mother. 

During the long night-watches — ^for, feeling sure the end 
was near, she had never taken her clothes off since that 
sunny hour of ignorant peace under the acacia- tree — the 
other mother sat and thought; looking anxiously ahead — 
as, possibly because Austin never did it, she was prone to 
do; weighing well the case, and considering every claim of 
duty, and of that much-belauded quality, self-sacrifice, 
which so seldom involves the sacrifice of only one’s self. 
It did not here. To take Nanny as a permanent inmate—* 


9G 


KIKG ARTHUR. 


which seemed the most natural and right thing — would 
alter life entirely to the happy little family at the rectory. 
True, Arthur might go to school, and Kanny come in his 
place; but could Susannah love any child but Arthur? Cer- 
tainly not Halbert Trevena^s child. And to have him, the 
father, coming and going, tormenting Austin, perhaps 
sowing discord between him and her — or him and Arthur 
— it would be more than she could bear. 

‘‘ But perhaps, she said to herself, “ I may not have to 
bear it. He may want his daughter himself — or, " she was 
almost ashamed of the thought — ^yet it was true— ‘Hhe 
house which held his daughter would be the last place 
where he would care to go to. 

She was in a great strait; dreading continually that the 
dying woman should speak, and perhaps exact some death- 
bed promise that might burden her whole future — ^yet what 
could she do? 

On the forenoon of the second day, seeing no change, 
she snatched half an hour of fresh air in the peach-tree 
walk — ‘‘ mother ^s thinking-place,^^ Arthur called it. There 
had been a letter from Arthur — telling how he had not as 
yet been*‘‘ weeded out,^^ as the incompetent boys were, day 
by day — a hopeful sign; but the tug of war was yet to come. 

“ And he is all alone by himself — my darling boy!^^ she 
thought, with the natural mother^s pang and mother^s 
yearning; then remembered that other mother who was 
about to leave her child ‘‘ all alone by itself — nay — worse 
than alone — forever. 

The soft sleepy summer day seemed quite dreadful in its 
calm. And she could speak to no one — ^least of all to her 
husband, who looked so worried and weary, who tried to 
smile, while his brother smoked in his study and drank his 
wine, and conversed with him from morning till night; 
loud talk — boasting talk, in which it was a severe brain- 
exercise to distinguish what was the truth and what were — 
^in plain English — lies. 


KIKG AKTHUR. 


97 


Doubtless he was at it now — for she could smell a cigar 
in the summer-house; but the second voice there was not 
the rector’s — ^it was the low whimpering of a child.. 

She had meant to avoid the spot; but now she walked 
right toward it. Susannah had one great weakness — she 
never could hear a child cry without going to see what was 
amiss. 

There stood Captain Trevena^, with his little girl before 
him. He held her by the shoulders and was shaking her 
as a big dog shakes a hare. And not unlike a hunted hare’s 
was the look of those frightened pathetic eyes. 

“ I’lr teach you to hide things from your father/’ he was 
saying — in a voice very different from his bland conversa- 
tion-tone. Wait till your mother is dead — and then— 
Once more — where does she keep that diamond ring:” 

“ Mother made me promise not to tell anybody — and I 
won’t tell/’ sobbed the child. 

You won’t? Then, take that — and that — and that. ” 

With each word came a blow — what the advocates of 
corporal punishment for children would call just a box 
on the ear.” But blows they were; and they rang loudly 
on either side of the poor little head — the head with the 
delicate brain. 

Susannah darted forward — “Brute!” she muttered be- 
neath her breath; and snatched Nanny out of reach of the 
father’s hand — the hand — ^nominally that of a man and a 
gentleman — lifted against a child. Taking the little girl 
in her arms — ^though ten years old Nanny was piteously 
small and light — Mrs. Trevena faced her brother-in-law 
with flashing eyes. 

Brutes are almost always cowards. Captain Trevena’s 
rage evaporated in the mildest politeness: 

‘ ^ I am sorry you should have come at such an inoppor- 
tune moment. A* little wholesome chastisement — all par- 
ents must have the pain of administering it sometimes. 

4 


98 


KING AKTHUK. 


But perhaps your boy is so perfect that he never require® 
whipping 

‘‘ I should scorn to whip him. I should feel that every 
blow I gave to him was a degradation to myself. And for 
your child — touch her again if you dare!^^ 

Then the superficial gloss melted off, and the brute 
nature — harsh word, but true! — reasserted itself. 

You had better not interfere between me and Nanny.. 
Ifil do as I like with my own. 

You will not,^^ said Susannah resolutel}^ “ No man^s 
child is his own to do as he likes with. He must be a true 
parent or he has no parental rights at all. Nanny! little 
Nanny !^^ 

But the child heard nothing. She had fainted. 

‘‘ You see? said Susannah, showing the white little face 
which lay on her shoulder. Now go. It is the best 
thing you can do.^"’ 

She said not another word — her scorn was too great. 
Under it he slunk away to the other end of the garden: 
where half an hour afterward, when Nanny was quite re- 
covered, having made no word of complaint or eNplanation 
except, “ Don’t tell mother,” he was seen walking and 
smoking with leisurely grace, just as if nothing had hap* 
pened. 

From that moment Mrs. Trevena’s mind was made up. 
She did not feel particularly drawn to Nanny, who was not 
an interesting child; but she was a child, and every 
womanly and motherly feeling in Susannah’s nature re- 
volted from the thought of her being left helpless, mother- 
less, in the hands of such a father. 

I don’t want to do it — I would prefer not to do it,” she 
said to her husband in the few minutes’ talk they had 
together that night. But there is no alternative. When 
Namiy’s mother dies we must take the child. ” 

I suppose we must,” said Austin with a troubled air. 

But she is not the least bit of a Trevena.” 


KmG ARTHUR. 


99 


‘‘No, thank God!^^ Susannah was no the j^oint of say- 
ing, but stopped, and leaning down kissed the wrinkled 
brow that she had loved ever since it was smooth and 
young. “ You are the best man I ever knew in all my life. 
You do your duty whatever comes. Do it still, Austin, 
and — so shall 

Before settling again to her nightly watch, she tucked up 
little Nanny in her sofa-bed, and kissed her — kindly, rather 
than tenderly. She felt kindly to every child, but she had 
no heart of love for any but Arthur. Then seeing Naiiny^s 
mother was watching her — apparently wide awake, and 
wishing to talk — she came and sat down by the bedside, 
prepared for whatever might happen. 

“ Nanny is. fast asleep — she was rather tired. She is a 
good little girl.^^ 

The gentle whisper was answered by a faint pressure of 
Susannah^s hand. “Yes — very good. I want to speak 
to you — about Nanny. 

It was not an hour for disguising, or delaying, the truth. 
Still Mrs. Trevena could not help saying, “ By and by, 
when you are better. 

“ I shall never be better. I donT want to be better — I 
want to die — except for Nanny. And as she spoke, very 
feebly and faintly, two great tears stole from the dying 
eyes, and rolled down the wasted cheeks. 

All the mother in Susannah^s heart yearned over this 
other mother, obliged to go and leave her child alone in 
cruel world. She paused a minute, and then said, though 
feeling keenly all that the promise involved, and how hard 
a sacrifice it was to make it, “ Be content about Nanny. 
We — my husband and I — will always take care of her. 

To her astonishment, the sick woman, instead of show- 
ing gratitude, fell into an agony of distress. 

‘ ‘ No — ^110 — no. It is the last thing I should wish. Let 
her be taken right away — brought up anyhow, anywhere — 
but not with the Trevenas. No Trevenas — no Trevenas/^ 


100 


KING AKTHUK. 


she kept muttering; while shudder after shudder passed 
over her. 

Mrs. Trevena felt neither anger nor pain — not even sur- 
prise, In her sister-in-1 a w^s place she knew she should 
have said the same. There have been mothers — she could 
understand it — who would rather see their children die than 
leave them in the hands of their father. 

“lam not a Trevena/'’ she said soothingly. “ Can you 
not trust me?^^ 

The dying eyes opened; and the two women — both 
mothers — looked fixedly at each other. What different 
faces!— -what different lives! But was it entirely Fate that 
had done it? Do we not constantly see some women who 
conquer Fate, and make peace out of misery? while others 
throw away the happiest lot and convert it into woe? How- 
ever, this is a mystery which none can unravel : Susannah 
never attempted to do so. 

She took her sister-in-law^ s hand, and by degrees suc- 
ceeded in winning from her enough confidence to get some 
light on the dark future. 

It seemed the woman^s one hope in coming to England 
had been that she might live long enough to place her child 
with her own former governess — a Miss Grogan — who kept 
a small school at Bath, and would educate Hanny, whether 
paid or not paid, until she could earn her own living; and 
also protect her from the one person in the world against 
whom she required protection— her father. 

“Miss Grogan knows everything; she was with us in 
Australia — she is altogether faithful. Takq Nanny to her 
— take her yourself, and donT tell him the address — Nanny 
knows it — only Nanny. Hide the child from him — hide 
her! If I could only hide her with me in the grave! she 
would be safe there. 

“ She shall be safe — I will see to that. Be satisfied. 

Susannah’s low firm voice and reassuring clasp, seemed 
to bring comfort to the miserable woman, whose misery 


Kli^G ARTHUE. 101 

would soon be past. For such as she there is no refuge ex- 
cept death; and her sister-in-law knew it. 

“ Yes, I think I may trust you — as you said, you are not 
a Trevena. Look here!^^ 

Opening her night-dress, she showed, suspended . round 
her neck, a valuable ring. In the dim candle-light the 
stone — one huge diamond — glittered with a ghastly bright- . 
ness on the poor withered breast, little more than skin and 
bone. 

‘‘ When I am dead, take care of this. My father found 
it at Ballarat, and left it to Nanny. It is all she has. 
DonH let Mm see it — don^t let him get it. You promise?^^ 

‘‘ I promise.^’ 

And for the first time Susannah kissed her sister-in-law. 
When her lips touched the brow she felt the death-damp 
already gathering there. A violent fit of coughing came- 
on, and after that there was quiet. 

Should she disturb this last hour of peace? Susannah 
decided not. Should she call the household — or fetch the 
husband who was such only in name, and in reality a tor- 
ment and a terror, to trouble the dying woman? The poor 
soul wished for nobody, asked for nobody; except that 
toward dawn, when there was a faint twitter of sparrows 
under the eaves outside, she opened her eyes and looked 
wistfully round. 

‘‘ Whereas Nanny?^" 

Asleep on her sofa there"; but I can lift her and put 
her beside you. 

“ Please, yes. Thank you. God bless you. Many a 
year after Susannah remembered that benediction. 

She lifted the little girl, who halt waked up, and then 
with a contented murmur put her arm round her mother 
neck, and went to sleep again. Susannah would have 
moved it — the little soft arm, heavy with sleep — but tho 
mother refused. 

“ No — no. DonT disturb the child. 


102 


Kmo AKTHm. 


They were her last words. 

Mrs. Trevena had watched by many a death-bed, but this 
one was so peaceful that she hardly recognized it was such. 
Mother and child dropped asleep together so quietly and 
naturally that she thought the end might not come for a 
good while yet. She sat, watching the day-break grow, little 
by little, full of many and anxious thoughts, that wandered 
far away into the dim future, making her forget the pres- 
ent. At last, hearing the church clock strike five, she rose 
softly to undraw the curtain, and returning to the bed, 
looked at the sleepers. 

He had come — the great Divider. The child was breath- 
ing softly, in the deepest, happiest slumber; the mother — 
yes! she slept too: she would never wake to sorrow any 
more. 

Susannah lifted Nanny in her arms, covering her face 
with a shawl: and carried her, still fast asleep, into the 
next room, where she laid her down in Arthur^s bed. Then 
she came back; closed the eyes and straightened the limbs 
of the dead; and kneeling by the bedside wept, as she never 
thought she should have wept for Halbeii; Trevena^s wife; 
scarcely with grief — but with a tenderness, the memory of 
wdiich never departed from her heart. 

"WTien Captain Trevena descended to his usual late and 
solitary breakfast, he received the news of his wife^s death, 
which he took so easily as quite to relieve Mrs. Trevena’s 
conscience for not having summoned him before. 

Poor dear girl! AVell — it was to be expected. I hope 
she did not suffer at the last?^^ 

But whether or not she had suffered, or how and when 
she died, he did not stay to hear. His brother was a great 
deal more moved than he. Still, neither of them asked to 
enter the room, where, sweeter far in death than in life, 
the dead wife and mother lay. 

It was not till nearly midday that Mrs. Trevena, who 


KIJfG ARTHUR. 


103 


had left Kanny still sound asleep in Arthur^s bed, heard 
through the silent house a wild cry, and found the child 
standing, half-dressed as she was, battering frantically, 
against the locked door, and screaming aloud for Mother 

How Susannah got through the next half-hour, she 
hardly knew; how she managed to tell the'cliild the truth, 
and gradually to quiet her despair. But in such crises 
words often come which seem like inspirations; and there 
was Susannah’s very silence — in the touch of her hand and 
her kiss, something so essentially motherly, that the 
motherless child at last sobbed herself to sleep on her 
bosom, and was again laid in Arthur’s bed. 

Then Mrs. Trevena went to her own; and overcome with 
sheer exhaustion, she too fell asleep. 

When she woke up — tight, rough, boyish arms were 
round her neck, and she was almost smothered in kisses. 

“ Mammy, mammy. I’ve come back, and I’m on the 
Roll — fifth on the Roll. I’ve beaten ninety boys, though I 
never went to school. Next term I shall be a Winchester 
boy — and in five years more an Oxford man — for I’ll try to 
get to New College. I will, mother! How glad you’ll be!” 

And Arthur was very much astonished to find his mother 
weeping on his neck as he had never seen her weep in all 
his life before. His had been such a happy young life; so 
entirely free from the shadow of death — from every shadow 
of every kind — that no wonder he was startled. 

He had rushed in with his joyful news, to find the house 
empty and silent; for the two brothers were in the church- 
yard choosing a grave; and the servants were all in the 
kitchen ‘‘ talking things over.” No one had seen him ar- 
rive, or told him anything. 

“ I ran into the dining-room, and the parlor, and then 
up to my room — there’s a queer little girl fast asleep in my 
bed — and then I ran in here. Mother, what is the matter? 
Why do you cry? Who has been vexing you?” 

Mrs. Trevena made her son sit down by her — happy liv- 


104 


KIlsG AKTHUR. 


ing child and living mother! — and explained all that had 
hap 2 )ened. 

Some men, and boys too, have the best characteristic of 
true manhood — tenderness over the weak and the sutfering. 
Mrs. Trevena had seen it in Arthur before now, hut never 
so plainly as when he went with her — of his own accord — 

to comfort poor little I4anny.^^ 

Nanny was awake, crying quietly, but not troubling any- 
body; it seemed to have been the law of her young life that 
she was not to trouble anybody. 

I have brought my son to see you, Nanny. Kiss her, 
Arthur. And the two children, with the wonderful free- 
masonry of childhood, kissed one another, and made friends 
immediately. 

They were a great contrast; one so big and tall and 
strong; handsome too — ^bright-looking as bright-hearted; 
the other puny, dark, and plain — ^nothing at all attractive 
about her except large pitiful brown eyes, as pathetic as a 
hunted deer^s. She looked up in the big boy’s face, as if 
wondering if he too were going to hurt her — and then she 
began to smile. 

Arthur took hold of the child’s hand — he evidently 
thought her the merest baby; and proposed that she should 
go with him to see his big Newfoundland, Nero, and his 
pretty pigeons. And Nanny went. 

Thankfully Mrs. Trevena saw that Arthur comforted the 
poor little girl twenty times better than she could have 
done. And it gladdened her to notice that during the next 
dreary three days he did not forsake the shut-up house, or 
get weary of the heart-broken and often fretful child. That 
deep pity which is always deepest in the strongest hearts, 
had been awakened in the boy. He was chivalrous, tender, 
and patient too, with poor Nanny, to a degree that his 
mother had hardly thought possible in a lively active lad of 
thirteen. But she rejoiced — as she did in every new develop- 


KING ARTHUR. 105 

ment of character which foretold what sort ofi man her 
King Arthur would become. 

He seemed to have quite forgotten his own^success, which 
Mr. Hardy said had been most remarkable. Hot a word 
was spoken about Winchester until the days of busy quiet 
with death in the house ” were ended, and Kalmyks 
mother had been laid to rest in the church-yard close by. 

Kanny was not at the funeral — nor Arthur. Mrs. 
Trevena sent the children away for a long walk across' 
country, and when they came back the blinds were all 
drawn up and the house looking as usual. So Kalmyks 
last remembrance of her mother was — as Mrs. Trevena had 
determined it should be — that peaceful falling asleep with 
her arm round her neck, as seemed to have been the habit 
of years. 

Captain Trevena followed his wife to the grave with due 
decorum, and in a new suit of best black clothes, provided 
by his brother. Outsiders might have thought he mourned 
sincerely the wife whose hfe he had made utterly miserable. 
Perhaps he did regret her — for a day. 

All that evening he was rather subdued and grave; spoke 
kindly to his daughter, and approved of her mourning-dress 
— arranged like everything else, by her “ kindest of aunts 
— to whom he left every responsibility. Except a passing 
remark about ‘ ‘ a little ring — a sort of crystal, of no partic- 
ular value — which, if she found, he should like to have, 
to wear in remembrance of my late dear wife — except 
this observation, which Mrs. Trevena never answered, he 
asked no question about anything. In truth there was 
nothmg to inquire about. Save the clothes they had on,, 
mother and child seemed to have possessed scarcely a rag in 
the world. 

Captain Trevena was better off. And when at supper- 
time he announced that he should want Bob Bates to carry 
his portmanteau to the nearest station, as he thought of go- 


lOG 


KmG ARTHUR. 


ing to London — “ for a few days’ rest and change ” — no- 
body attempted to hinder him. 

He went, and it was a relief when he was gone. To see 
Nanny, whom he had forgotten to say good-bye to, break 
into a broad smile of happiness when told her father had 
departed, was the most piteous condemnation that any fa- 
ther could have earned. 

Mother, I hate that man! He is no more like my papa 
than — than — ” words failed to Arthur’s youthful indigna- 
tion. “ I’ll never call him ‘ Uncle ’ as long as I live.” 

‘‘You need not,” answered the mother, gravely. “ He 
is not your uncle, and Nanny is not your cousin; but you 
can always call her so. ” 

“ I will! — and I’ll protect her to the end of my days. ” 
And Arthur looked as if he knew how much she needed 
protection — which, very likely, he did know, though with 
the not uncommon reticence of childhood the two young 
creatures kept their own counsel. It had been one of the 
chivalrous teachings of “ King ” Arthur’s mother to her 
boy— “ Never complain!” 

No one was much surprised, or very sorry, when a whole 
week passed, and Captain Trevena did not reappear. Mean- 
time, Mrs. Trevena, who never let grass grow under her 
feet when there was anything to be done, had written to 
the address which Nanny gave her — ^the child was a curious 
mixture of babyishness and sad precocity — and had received 
a neatly written and kindly worded letter, signed “ Anasta- 
sia Grogan,” saying the writer would be glad to receive her 
goddaughter immediately, in her quiet home at Bath. 

“ I will take Nanny there myself,” said Susannah, ex- 
plaining to her husband the dead mother’s wish, and obey- 
ing it by not even telling liim Miss Grogan’s address: Austin 
was too tender-hearted to be trusted with a secret that con- 
cerned his clever brother. “ And I think I will take her 
at once. ’ ’ 

For she felt that with the then existing English law. 


KIXG ARTHUR. 


107 


which even yet maintains the fiction of mediaeval and an- 
cient days, that a man^s wife and children are his mere 
goods and chattels to deal with as he chooses, it would not 
be safe to wait Captain Trevena'^s return. 

Susannah was not a coward. She was determined, by 
fair means or foul, to snatch this poor innocent — a girl too 
— out of her father^s lands; to circumvent him, and the 
law too, if necessary, by all possible means. She had no 
conscience-stings — no scruple about parental rights — there 
can be no rights where duties are left unfulfilled. 

‘‘God gave me no children,” she sighed to herself, as 
she watched Arthur and Nanny at' play in the garden — 
Nanny had blossomed out like a flower in that one w^eek^s 
peace and love. “ But I have saved one child: perhaps it 
may be His will that I shall help to save another. ” 

So, one fine morning — leaving a line for Austin, who had 
gone to a diocesan meeting — she started with the two, for 
she dared not leave Arthur behind, and, besides, he was 
company for Nanny. Her heart melted as she wrote the 
brief note, almost the first since her marriage, to her “ be- 
loved husband,” from whom she had never been parted for 
a day. She knew her departure would vex and grieve him, 
but he would be glad afterward. For sometimes, in the 
relief and peace of his brother'’ s absence, the rector had be- 
gmi to notice his little niece, and once had even taken her 
on his knee, and remarked that she had “ the Trevena 
hands. ” 

“ She is, after all, the last of theTrevenas — his own flesh 
and blood; if I can save her, Austin will be glad.-’^ 

So thought the faithful wife — faithful, though stern — as 
the train whirled her away to Bath, she sitting silent, and 
her two “ children opposite chattering like a couple of 
magpies. Two children — neither of them her own, yet God 
seemed to have given them to her, and she accepted the 
trust. If she could only make them His cliildren, her life 
would not have been in vain. 


108 


KDS^G ARTHUR. 


Had Miss virogan proved unsatisfactory, she had deter- 
mined, at all risk and cost, to bring Nanny hack to the 
rectory; but it was needless. She found a bright little 
house, on the top of one of the pleasant Bath hills, and in 
it a bright little woman — Irish, certainly, hut of that type 
of Irishwoman which English folk are so slow to believe in. 
Tidy, accurate, methodical; keeping her house in apple- 
pie order, and herself as neat as a new pin;’^ to these 
proverbially un-Irish qualities Miss Grogan added others, 
which even enemies allow to the children of the Emerald 
Isle — a warm heart, a blithe spirit, quick sympathy, and 
ready generosity. Withal, that most desirable thing in man 
or woman — courage. Elderly as she was, there was a 
sparkle in Miss Grogan^ s soft Irish eyes which showed that 
she knew how to defend a friend and to face a foe. Susan- 
nah felt instinctively that the poor feeble dead woman had 
judged rightly. Here was the right person to bring up, 
and, if necessary, to protect, the worse than orphan 
child. 

“ Yes, I know him,^^ was all Miss Grogan said of Halbert 
Trevena. ‘‘ I agree with you; the best thing we can do for 
Nanny is never to mention her father’s name, ^ Non ragio- 
iiam de lor, ma guarda e passa, ’ ” added she, with a little 
innocent pedantry — she was evidently a well-educated 
woman. And so the subject ended. 

Eor a long time the godmother refused to accept any 
money for Nanny, but finally her Irish pride had to sub- 
mit to her evidently narrow means, and the practical com- 
mon sense of Mrs. Trevena; and it was agreed that a fair 
annual' payment should be guaranteed by Nanny’s uncle 
and aunt, if they both lived. 

And if we die,” said Susannah, “ there is still this dia- 
mond ring.” 

I know it of old. ” 

He says it is ‘ of no particular value.’ ” 

Let us fijid out,” was the answer, with a smile, that 


KING ARTHUK. 109 

might have been called sarcastic, had not Miss Grogan been 
such a very pleasant old lady. 

So the two elders went — the two children following — 
down into the pleasant streets of Bath, to a jeweler^s, there, 
and found that the diamond, though roughly set, was of 
great value — probably worth three or four hundred pounds. 

Susannah breathed with new relief and thankfulness. 

“ Then, in any case, the child will not be destitute. 
Should we die before she is growh up, it will suffice to edu- 
cate lier. Do you hear, Nanny?^^ for she felt it better that 
the child, who knew so much, should know everything. 
“ This ring is yours, your grandfather^s gift: it is worth 
several hundred pounds, and you shall have it when you are 
twenty-one, or when you marry. 

I donH mean to marry — mamma told me not — it would 
only make me miserable,^ ^ said the child, her tears begin- 
ning to flow, as they always did when she spoke of her 
mother; but the consoler was at hand. She turned to him 
gratefully — “ Yes, I think I will marry — Til marry you. 
Cousin Arthur — and then you will get the diamond ring.^^ 

Arthur blushed — school-boy fashion; and Miss Grogan 
said primly, “ My dear, you are too young to talk about 
such things. Mrs. Trevena said nothing, but was con- 
scious of a queer sensation, scarcely an arrow — more like a 
pin-prick — at her heart, for which she laughed at herself, 
but did not get rid of it — ^not for days. 

She left Nanny quite content, for her godmother was 
evidently well remembered by her; and there had appeared 
at tea-time two little girls, Australian-born, who had been 
conflded to Miss Grogan for education. These young com- 
panions lessened the grief of parting with Arthur: and 
Arthur himself seemed to feel he had done his utmost duty 
to “ only a girl,^^ and might now plunge back into boy-life, 
and tell his mother all about the delight of AVinchester. 

No tongue can tell the relief it was when Susannah found 
herself sitting in the rectory parlor — alone with her very 


110 


KIN^Ct ARTHUR. 


own twO;, her husband and son, and nobody else! The 
storm had come and gone; she had borne it, and done her 
duty through it — her utmost duty — and now the sky was 
clear, at least for a time. 

Alas, no! AVhen Arthur went to bed she told her hus- 
band as much as it seemed desirable to tell about little 
Nanny^’s affaii’s, to which Mr. Trevena listened with his 
usual absent-mindedness. The worried look gradually re- 
turned to his face; till at last, when Susannah asked the 
natural question, Any letters?^^ he drew one out of his 
pocket. It was the long-familiar handwriting that always 
foreboded trouble. 

“ This came yesterday, but I would not answer it till you 
returned home. Read it, and tell me what you think. 

It was one of those lucky chances which few men^s lives 
are quite without; which had come again and -again to Hal- 
bert Trevena, and been throw away. An old friend of the 
family, whom he had just met accidentally, after having 
lost sight of him for years, had offered him a situation abroad, 
at a tea-garden in Ceylon; a Iona fide offer, for he inclosed 
the letter in which it was made — a most kind letter from 
an old man, who knew scarcely anything of him, except 
that he was a Trevena. It seemed to have touched that 
callous heart. Though there would be hard work and 
little pay, Hal wished to accept the situation, and asked his 
brother “ for really the last time to assist him; to pay his 
passage and give him a small outfit to begin a new life in 
a new land. 

“He may prosper there, he is so clever,^ ^ said Austin- 
“ And not very old — only a year older than I. Indeed he 
looked much younger, having such a splendid physique, and 
what some cynical physician has called the secret of long 
life — “ a good digestion, and no heart to speak of. “ Who 
knows, Susannah, but that poor Hal might do well yet?^^ 

Susannah, loath to wound this pathetic, lingering, 
fraternal love, replied that it was just possible.’’^ At any 


KIKG ARTHUR. Ill 

rate, she felt that some sacrifice was worth making, if only 
to get rid of him. 

So the money was sent, though not in coin, the passage 
being paid to the ship^s agent, and the outfitter's bill 
ordered to be forwarded to the rectory: precautions not un- 
necessary. Hal did not resent them; he never resented 
anything, and always accepted everything. About his 
daughter he asked not a single question; nor even named 
her, until his farewell letter, when apologizing for having no 
time to come to Tawton, he said that he left her with en- 
tire confidence to the care of her uncle and aunt. 

“Poor fellow! Perhaps I may never set eyes on him 
again — the climate of Ceylon is very bad, tliey say. Would 
there be any chance of seeing him off from Southampton?’^ 

There was a pathos in Mr. Tre vena’s look which his wife 
■could not resist. Much as it often irritated her, she. could not 
but see, with a tenderness approaching to reverence, how 
deep in this good man’s heart lay that divine charity wliich 

believe th all things — hopeth all things. ” The journey 
would be a trouble and expense, and the family finances 
were already sorely strained — would be more so by the pay- 
ment for Nanny. Not for Arthur: oh! with what glad pride 
did she reflect that Arthur’s education would cost Mr. 
Trevena almost nothing. She calculated a little, and then 
said : 

“ If you like, Austin, we will go to Southampton at 
once. ” 

““You too?” she said joyfully. And they started: their 
first journey together for many a long year. It felt almost 
like a honey-moon. 

Susannah had almost expected not to see her brother-in- 
lawr — hut he was there. He seemed really to have “ turned 
over a new leaf ” — as people say — though alas! the new 
leaf often gets as blurred and blotted as the old one ! He 
met them with even more than his customary empresseme7iti 
and the trio had a peaceful and pleasant dinner together at 


112 


KIl^G AETHUE. 


the hotel before joining that company, sad and strange — 
which goes on board every P. and 0. steamer wfth last fare- 
wells. 

Their adieus were, however, no heart-break to any one. 
Captain Trevena was in exuberant spirits. The newly 
made widower might have been a gay young bachelor be- 
ginning the world, free as air, with not a cloud of regret or 
remorse upon his heart. 

How is Hanny?'^ he did once ask; but he never waited 
for an answer; and soon after said— quite carelessly as it 
seemed: By the bye, have you brought the little ring I 

wished for? — not that it is worth much, but I should like 
to wear it in memory of my late dear wife.^^ 

For an instant Susannah was silent with indignant con- 
tempt; then she said^ in a manner that he could not mis- 
take: 

I know exactly what the ring is worth, for I have had 
it valued by a jeweler. But it is not yours — it is FTanny^s 
— left her by her grandfather. I shall keep it for her till 
she is twenty-one. 

‘‘ The devil you will!^^ And truly the devil himself 
glared out of the angiy eyes, and spoke in the muttered 
execration which followed. But Captain Trevena had been 
checkmated — or rather he had checkmated himself : and. it 
was too late now, except for furious looks and words, which 
fell harmless upon the little woman before liim. He might 
as well have stormed against a stone — and he knew it. 

However, he thought it wiser to let all pass. His hand- 
some face recovered its usual bland smile, and by the time 
that “ All on shore ” was called out, he was ready with a 
cheery good-bye. 

‘‘ It really was most kind of you, Austin, to come and see 
me off. Give my love to Nanny. Say, I leave her in 
charge of the best of uncles — and aunts " (with a bow in 
which it was difficult to say whether politeness or sarcasm 
predominated). ‘‘ Good-bye to you both — good-bye/’ 


KI^Ct ARTHUR. 


113 


They left him kissing his hand to them as he leaned over 
the ship^s side; but almost before Susannah ventured to 
speak to her husband^ who had turned aside, the tears run- 
ning down his cheeks, she saw Halbert laughing and talking 
with some ladies: he had already made acquaintance with 
several of the passengers, and before reaching Suez woidd 
doubtless be the most popular man on board. 

“ No need to grieve for him, she thought, but said noth- 
ing. Nor did her husband. All the under tragedies of 
life are often acted — and perhaps best — in total silence. 

Hal may do well yet,^^ Mr. Trevena said, as a sort 
of remorseful balance-weight against the deep sense of 
relief that they both felt in coming back, they two alone, 
to their peaceful home. Except for that grave, equally 
peaceful, in the church-yard hard by, all the last weeks 
might have been a painful dream. Once more the rector 
and his wife sauntered leisurely up and down the peach- 
tree walk, and Arthur went back to his lessons, and was 
forever asking his papa about old Winchester days — which 
the old Wykehamite recalled with utmost enthusiasm — the 
days when Hal and I were boys together only one was 
an idler and the other a worker. Still — Austin often ended 
with the sigh — “ But Hal may do well yet."-^ 

He might have done — though it is seldom that at the 
eleventh hour the Ethiopian changes his skin and the 
leopard his spots — but fate— cruel or merciful, who dare 
say! — ordained it otherwise. 

Three days after he sailed the daily newspaper brought ta 
the rectory, and to many another English home, tidings of 
one of those disasters at sea, which not seldom happen ta 
outward-bound ships — a collision in the Channel. The emi- 
grant ship — a miserable unseaworthy craft — went down im- 
mediately, but the passengers and crew of the large steamer 
did their best to save all the lives they could, launching 
boats, and helping the drowning wretches to climb on 
board. One passenger in particular, it was said, had as- 


lU 


KIXG ARTHUR. 


sisted many, holding on at the ship’s side, and throwing 
out from thence ropes and life-preservers. But the vessel 
gave a lurch — he fell overboard — and never rose again. 
The name of this brave passenger, it was ascertained, was 
Halbert Trevena. 

So all was over. No more hope — nor fear. His death, 
more honorable than ever his life had been, covered over its 
many shortcomings — or sins. Captain Trovena’s heroic 
conduct ’ ’ was mentioned in the newspapers : and for months 
after, letters of condolence, admiration and gratitude, 
reached the rectory from friends and strangers. No one 
could have desired a more lauded or lamented end. 

Scarcely a melancholy end, Susannah sometimes thought. 
Nor his last act had been perhaps the noblest in his life. 
Better he should die as he did, and when he did, and be 
spoken of with praise and remembered with tenderness. 
She thought, with untold thankfulness, of that journey to 
Southampton, and how the brothers had parted in peace, 
with kindly good wishes, hopes and prayers — which perhaps 
Heaven had answered in its own way. 

There was no need to go and console Nanny for the death 
of a parent who had never been such to her except in name 
— but Mrs. Trevena collected carefully all that the news- 
papers had said in his praise, and every letter which reached 
the rectory concerning him, asking Miss Grogan to keep 
them or Nanny, and teach the child to forget everything 
about her father except his blanieless and heroic end. 


CHAPTER lY. 

Young lovers are a sweet and pleasant sight: and so are 
young married people, absorbed in their present bliss, with 
the future stretching out before them, all in a golden haze. 
But the sweetest aud sacredest sight of all is an elderly 
couple to whom hope has become certainty: whose future 


KmG ARTHUR. 


115 


has narrowed down to a quiet present — ^yet who love one 
another stilly and by the strength and perfectness of that 
love are able to enjoy Now, without regretting Then. 

Thus it was with Mr. and Mrs. Trevena. Though mar- 
ried late in life, their real union had begun so early, that 
neither had a past or desired a future in which the other had 
no share. Of course, their felicity had not been unclouded: 
what human happiness is? But ‘‘ the little rift within the 
lute — which happens in almost all marriages, and has 
power in many to ‘‘ make the music mute — had been 
closed by wise hands; j)artly the hand of Providence, and 
partly — let it be honestly said I — their own. There is no 
marriage which can not be made unhappy — there are few 
marriages which can not be made less unhappy — if the 
parties concerned so choose. 

Austin and Susannah had not grown less happy as they 
grew older — rather the contrary. He no longer sacrificed 
everything, his wife included, on the shrine of what is called 

family duty — a religion which, begun in the noblest 
faith, sometimes degenerates into a mere fetish-worship of 
what is essentially mean and base. And Susannah, when, 
also out of duty, she let her boy become a school-boy, and 
contented herself with only seeing him in the holidays — was 
saved from that passion of maternal idolatry which might 
have proved equally fatal for him, for her, and for her hus- 
band. Gradually she learned the inevitable lesson of all 
mothers — to sit still and see their children happy on their 
own account. Not ceasing to make them happy, but ceas- 
ing to feel wounded because the new generation was a hap- 
piness apart from the old. 

When Arthur ^s letters came, brimful of enjoyment — 
Greek and football, cricket, music, and mathematics being 
inextricably muddled- up together— for the yoimg King 
verified the adage of “ good at work, good at play;^^ full 
too of Winchester slang, which Mr. Trevena recalled with 
delight, and protested was not vulgar at all, but only archaic 


116 


KIKG AETHUR. 


and historical— the miexacting mother read the brief post- 
script — How are you all at home?’^ and did not expect 
more. She knew her darling loved her in his heart; and 
that the thirteen years during which she had had him all 
to herself, to train both mind and body in the right way, 
would never be lost, but bear fruit in time to come. 

Yet, when he returned, after a few months, a regular 
Winchester boy, at first he seemed something new and 
strange. He had grown very tall; and, it could not be de- 
nied, promised to be extremely handsome; even though lie 
had cropped his curly hair in the cruelest way, and scarred 
his long slender hands with knife-cuts; nay, as he told his 
mother with great pride, had been within an inch of break- 
ing his beautiful Roman nose. Still, despite these draw- 
backs, when he went to church with her the first Sunday, 
he was a boy that most people would have turned round to 
look at, and whom any mother would be proud to have 
standing by her side, and singing away — ‘Mike a cheru- 
bim one old woman in the congregation said — ^with the 
waning beauty of his boyish voice, which had made him 
already notable in the Winchester choir. 

“ Whether or not Arthur will turn out handsome, he 
certainly looks every inch a gentleman,-’^ she said to her 
husband as they took their peaceful stroll between services, 
up and down the peach-tree walk. 

“ All Wykehamites are gentlemen,^^ the rector answered 
with pardonable prejudice. 

But she had meant something more than that. “ AVhat 
is bred in the bone will come out in the flesh — is a truth 
which there is no gainsaying. All the education in the 
world would never have put into Arthur what did not in- 
herently exist there. There must have been good material, 
natural or hereditary, to work upon. How, far more than 
when he was a baby — ^lier own innocent, helpless baby — did 
Susannah speculate about him, noticing every new develop- 
ment, and contrasting him with other children. Especially- 


KING AETHUR. 117 

with Nanny, .who shortly after also came home for the 
holidays. 

The ‘‘last of the Trevenas,^^ as her uncle sometimes 
pathetically called her, was, Mrs. T re vena thought, very 
inferior to her own Arthur. Nanny was a good little girl; 
but she was prim and. quiet, taciturn and plain. She could 
not compare at all with the big school-boy — full of life, 
health, and activity. Not that Arthur was ever unkind to 
her; but he just ignored her, as school-boys do ignore httle 
girls, unless specially attractive. He tried to be civil and 
polite — ^brought her flowers and condescendingly took her a 
walk now and then; but he told his mother confldentially 
that “ Nanny was a big baby — and escaped from her 
society whenever he politely could. At which poor Nanny 
used to look so miserable, that Mrs. Trevena considered 
seriously whether it would not be better in future to ar- 
range the child ^s home-coming at a different time from 
Arthur^ s. 

But next year Fate took the decision out of her hands; 
for Miss Grogan had a severe illness, and Nanny, with a 
resolution which her uncle and aunt had not expected in so 
small a child, absolutely refused to leave her. 

“ Nanny always was a devoted little creature,” said Mrs. 
Trevena, remembering those few days in the sick-room — 
the room of death. But still she was not sorry to have her 
boy all to herself for those brief, too brief hohday weeks; 
wlien she could watch him growing up to manhood — the 
delight of her heart — the desire of her eyes. 

He was in truth a very flne yoimg fellow. At sixteen he 
was little short of six feet high. Slender and supple as a 
willow-wand, yet not lanky; very muscular and strong for 
his age. He was good at all athletic sports, and made as 
much use of his body as he did of his brains. His mother^s 
maxim, “ Better to wear out than rust out,^^ seemed ex- 
emplifled in “King” Arthur — though he did not seem 
likely to wear out for tlie next threescore years at least; for 


118 


KIKG AKTHUR. 


the wholesome iipbringing,of his childhood had resulted in 
a healthy youth, and hade fair to develop into a splendid 
manhood. 

Often when she looked at him, she wondered whence all 
this came — this w^ealth of physical and mental power; 
much as Merlin must have wondered, when he saw grow 
under his eyes the ‘‘ little naked child naked of every 
hereditary blessing; owing fortune nothing — not even a 
name. 

“ The hoys always call you Trevena?^^ she once said to 
him, anxiously. ‘‘ They — they ask no questions?^^ 

Arthur blushed, as he had done more than once lately 
when strangers made unconscious ignorant remarks; such 
as noticing his height, and saying he ^ ‘ took after his papa. 

“ They did chaff me at first, mother — just a little. And 
one fellow called me Nemo — but I thrashed him to within 
an inch of his life. And then I told the other fellows the 
plain truth about myself, as you advised me. Nobody ever 
said an ill word to me afterward. 

So, already had begun for Arthur that battle with the 
world, from which his mother could not defend him — she 
could only give him strength for the conflict. 

‘‘That was well,^^ she answered, gently. “Indeed, I 
think: only a ‘ sneak ^ or a ‘ cad, ^ as you call them, would 
have been unkind to you. A name and even a family are 
not worth much sometimes — were not to poor little Sir 
Eustace Pamerel, who died last Christmas. We shall see 
what the new Eamerels will be like. They came to Taw- 
ton Abbas last week, and will likely be at church next 
Sunday. 

Thus said she, to turn away her boy’s thoughts from 
himself. But she need not have feared— Arthur’s nature 
was too wholesome, and his youth too full of hope and 
brightness, to have any morbid or sentimental feelings 
about either his origin or his future lot. And Winchester 
had not made him oblivious of Tawton Magna. He took 


nmcr AKTHUE. 


119 


the vividest interest in hearing about the Damerels — Sir 
Oharles and his lady; who had inherited the title and es- 
tates, and come to reside at the great house — ^which, being 
the only house except farm-houses for miles round, was a 
matter of some importance to the rectory. ‘ 

Do you mean to call there, mother.^ You ought,^^ 
said Arthur — ^who was a little given to laying down the 
law — as is not uncommon at sixteen. Are they young 
folks or old? Have they got any children?^ ^ 

I believe they are rather elderly people; distant cousins, 
whom nobody ever heard about till lately. And I think, 
but I am not sure — they have no children. 

At which Ai’thur^s interest died down — ^he said he didnH 
care for old fogies. And next Sunday he scarcely 
glanced in the direction of the Tawton Abbas pew, where, 
in the two arm-chairs which had stood there for genera- 
tions back, sat the new Baronet and Lady Damerel. They 
sat, with dead Damerels underfoot and monuments to the 
same overhead — the last representatives of the race. Only 
their two selves; though report declared they had had 
-several children — all dead now. Susannah wondered how 
a childless couple should ever have cared to claim either 
title or property. 

Of course they were stared at eagerly by the whole con- 
gregation. A curious pair — she, a fine-looking, fashionable 
woman, with a complexion much too fair and hair much 
too dark for her age; but the simple villagers suspected 
nothing, and set her down as being younger than her hus- 
band, who was a feeble-looking, melancholy little man, 
nigh upon seventy. Two footmen had helped him into 
church, and set him in his chair, whence he never moved, 
for his feet and hands were all knotted and distorted with 
rheumatism. But he had a mild and not unpleasing face — 
aristocratic — aquiline — ‘‘ as big a nose as mine,^^ Arthur 
-said, in commenting upon them after church. “ But, oh! 
I wouldnT be Sir Charles Damerel for the world!^^ 


120 


KIKG ARTHUR. 


‘‘ Nor I Lady Damerel/^ said Mrs. Trevena. Poor 
woman — what an unhappy face! No wonder, if she has 
lost all her children. 

And Susannah almost regretted having stopped to speak 
to them at the church door, introducing herseK as the 
rector’s wife, and Arthur as ‘‘ my son.” ‘‘ How she must 
envy me!” thought the tender-hearted soul, and blamed 
herself for flaunting before the childless woman her own 
superior bliss. 

‘‘ I don’t think Lady Hamerel’s children could have been 
very fond of her,” remarked Arthur sententiously. ‘‘ She 
may be good-looking, but she has the hardest and most un- 
pleasant face I ever saw. My little mammy is worth a 
hundred of her,” added he, puttiug his arm round his 
mother’s waist as of old; he was now growing past the age 
when boys are ashamed of their mothers, and he petted and 
patronized her to her heart’s content. 

Still, he was too much of the school-boy to care to go^ 
about visiting,” and absolutely declined — unless she par- 
ticularly wished it — to accompany her to Tawton Abbas, or 
make acquaintance with that horrid old couple;” over 
whom she had such unnecessary compassion that even the 
rector smiled. 

‘‘My dear Susannah, I can’t see that Lady Damerel 
needs the least pity — or desires it. I hear sHe is a most 
accomplished woman; will fill the house with brilliant 
society, and be popular everywhere. The rector’s wife will 
be nobody — the squire’s wife will take the shine out of you 
completely.-” 

“ I'd like to see it!” cried Arthur, blazing up; “ I’d like 
to find the lady who was fit to hold a candle to my mother!’ ’ 
he continued, dragging forward the easiest arm-chair and 
putting her into it, and waiting upon her unremittingly 
during their pleasant Sunday supper, when all the servants 
were out and Arthur did everything. He had that happy 
knack of true gentlemanhood, never to be ashamed of doing 


KING AKTHUR. 121 

everything — or anything: always ready to notice every one^s 
need^ and supply it — especially his mother^s. 

You are my eyes, my hands, and my feet,^^ she some- 
times said to the boy; and gave herself up, more and more 
every holidays, to the delight of being dependent — of lean- 
ing on her big son, with a sort of triumphant weakness that 
was utmost joy. 

But he was an obstinate young monkey for all his good 
qualities; possessing strongly the violent likes and dislikes 
of youth. And so it happened that for two whole years 
he never crossed the threshold of Tawton Abbas. 

Nor did the rector and his wife very often — not oftener 
than politeness and their position demanded. Susannah 
had few interests in common with the fashionable woman 
of the world, who was afraid of growing old, and who 
seemed to have no youth to remember; at least she never 
mentioned it. Austin, too, had little sympathy with Sir 
Charles, who, though gentle and gentlemanly, did not 
seem to have two ideas in his head — read no books, took 
no special interest in anything, and seemed mortally in fear 
of his clever wife. She on her part noticed him very little, 
and led a regular society-life — at least as gay a one as she 
could accomplish — agoing to London whenever she could, 
and bringing London people down with her on every possi- 
ble occasion. But she mixed very little with the neighbor- 
ing families, who, being unable to discover her antecedents 
(Sir Charleses, of course, were patent — he was a Damerel 
and that was enough), concluded there was something 
odd^^ about her. Perhaps, as she had some slight accent 
not quite English, and spoke several continental tongues, 
she was a foreigner — never much approved of in provincial 
society. Still, she was very handsome — very lady-like; all 
the gentlemen admired her, but the ladies thought her 
not domestic, and wondered that at her age she should 
care for concerts, private theatricals, and the like. 

However, to their opinion of her Eady Damerel seemed 


122 


KING AKTHUK. 


wholly indifferent. She gave a tenants^ ball at Christmas^, 
and a garden-party, to all classes not lower than doctors 
and lawyers, every summer. But beyond that the village 
and the rectory saw almost nothing of her, except at 
church, which she attended regularly, and where Mrs. 
Trevena, tender-hearted still, ofter compassionated the dis^ 
contented look and restless manner of the rich, clever, 
prosperous woman, who had neither son nor daughter — not 
even niece or nephew — at her empty fireside. 

“ How very empty it must be when the visitors go, and 
Sir Charles and she are left alone, Susannah said one day.. 

I think I will really pluck up heart; go and call at Taw- 
ton Abbas, and take Nanny with me. Nanny happened 
to be staying for a fortnight at the rectory, and her uncle 
and aunt had found her so harmless, even pleasant in the 
house, that they had kept her for a month. But the call 
resulted in nothing — not even an invitation to tea for the 
quiet unimpressive httle maiden, who was stared at from 
the piercing black eyes, through a double pince-nez, 

‘‘ Miss Trevena — did you say? Your daughter, I con- 
clude?^*’ 

My niece; I have no daughter. It. is my son you see - 
at church. Lady Damerel.*” 

“ Oh yes, I remember now. A tall young fellow — rather 
good-looking. You must bring him to see me some day.. 
But we have no young people here. Miss Trevena. Your 
mother — I mean your aunt — is more fortunate than I. All 
my children are dead. 

She said this, not with any tone of regret, but simply as 
stating a fact; then proceeded to discuss a new book and a 
new opera; talking miles above the head of poor innocent 
Nanny, who thought that Cousin Arthur — whom she seemed 
to miss extremely from the rectory in spite of his ignoring 
of her — was right in considering Lady Damerel the finest of 
fine ladies, and the most unpleasant. 

Nanny was now g«tting old enough for her future to re- 


KING IrTHUK. 123 

quire consideration. Not from her uncle, who never looked 
a day ahead: but she and her aunt sometimes talked it 
over. Nanny was an independent little soul. She knew 
she had not a penny in the world; except the value of that 
diamond ring; nor a friend, save Miss Grogan, who was , 
growing old and frail. Perhaps her mother’s sore experi- 
ence still lingered in her little soul — ^for she was not a bit 
of a Trevena, nor seemed much drawn to the Trevenas. 
She said calmly, ‘‘ I shall be a governess;” and though 
very grateful to her uncle for all his goodness, made it clear 
enough that as soon as she could earn her own bread, she 
would never eat the bread of dependence. Her aunt saw, not 
without thankfulness, that Halbert Tre vena’s daughter was, 
as often happens, the very opposite of himself. But though 
she was very kind to Nanny, and liked her sincerely, she 
scarcely loved her — one can not make one’s self love even a 
child. And then all her heart was bound up in her own 
boy. When Nanny went away, and Arthur came home for 
the holidays, Susannah felt the difference. 

King ” Arthur was much altered — much improved. 
He was in his last year at Winchester, and looked quite* the 
young man. There had never been much of the “ hobble- 
dehoy ” in him, probably because he was not shy — he did 
not think enough about himself for shyness. Reserved 
he was, in a sense; but that painful bashfulness, which as 
often springs from egotism as modesty, never troubled him 
much. By nature — and also by wise upbringing — he w^as 
a complete altruist — always interested in other people, and 

bothering ” himself very little about himself and his own 
affairs. 

But just \iow he could hardly help it. He had come 
home greatly excited by an incident — a coincidence such as 
haiipens in real life oftener than we think, and yet when 
put into books everybody cries out, ‘‘ How unnatural!” 

One day a little commoner ” he knew was visited by a 
iiitherto unknown^ grandfather, whom all the boys were 


124 


kikg arthue. 


inclined to laugh at, for his strong American accent and 
queer American ways, till they found out what a kindly old 
fellow he was, and what funny stories he told. 

He tipped us all round and asked our names, and when 
he heard mine, he started as if I^d hit him. Who do you 
think he was mother Guess now — guess?^^ 

It needed no guessing. Doctor Franklin! I am so glad 
he is alive. 

Very much alive, indeed cried Arthur. “ He’s as 
sharp and clever as ever he can he; and so kind — all the 
fellows hked him, though he was a foreigner and an Ameri- 
can. Fm not a bit ashamed of my godfather; and I like 
him very much. ” 

‘‘You have need to,” said Susannah gravely. And when 
a few days after Dr. Franklin appeared at the rectory 
(“ as large as life and twice as natural,” said he, with his 
queer internal chuckle), the welcome he received was al- 
most pathetic in its earnestness. When Susannah sat talk- 
ing to him, and found him scarcely changed — as gaunt and 
lanky, quaint and kind, as ever — it seemed as if eighteen 
years were rolled away like a cloud, and she were once 
more the woman who sat beneath the snow-wall -above An- 
dermatt — gazing on the snow-mountains, and tr3ring not to 
be broken-hearted, but to accept God’s will, whatever it 
was, and make for herself a happy life — unconscious how 
even then that Holy Will was preparing for her a happi- 
ness she never dreamed of. 

“ Look at him,” she said, as Arthur Just then crossed the 
lawn with his two big dogs, whistling to them, and then 
breaking out into a stave of “ Dulce domum,” in a voice 
which promised to be a fine tenor some day. “ Who would 
have thought my baby — ^your baby, doctor, you saved him 
for me! — would have grown up to that!” 

“ It’s a trick they have, ma’am. My ten are all men 
and women now — uncommonly good-looking too, some of 
them. ” 


KIiq^G AKTHUK. 


125 


And then he explained that his eldest daughter — fine 
girl — ^very fine— took after her mother, not me — had mar- 
ried a rich Enghsh baronet, which accounted for the fact of 
himself being grandfather to a Winchester hoy. 

Your boy might he a baronet^ s son too, ma^am, if 
there ^s anything in blood. Mrs. Franklin says there isn'^t; 
that it^s all upbringing. But in that case even, Arthur does 
you the greatest credit. 

Thank you,^^ said Susannah; and then tacitly follow- 
ing the young fellow — for it seemed such a pleasure to look 
at him — they passed through the church-yard into the park 
of Tawton Abbas; still talking like old friends and regret- 
ting that a very natural incident — Dr. Franklin^s losing 
their address, and therefore being unable to give them’ his 
own — had made them strangers for so many years. 

Which have been happy years, by your looks, Mrs. 
Trevena? Yo anxiety over your boy? you have never heard 
anything about that woman Dr. Franklin did not say 
that mother — who had no right to the name. 

Never. Have your^^ 

Dr. Frankhn looked uncomfortable. I did not mean 
to tell you unless you asked me the direct question; but — 
she has bothered me a little. At least I suppose it was she.-’' 

And then he explained that a year or two ago there had 
appeared in a New York paper an advertisement for a Dr. 
Frankhn, who would hear of something to his advan- 
tage," which his wife had insisted on his answering; and 
then had come a letter, in an evidently feigned hand, re- 
questing particulars about a child that was born at Ander- 
matt — whether ‘Mt " was alive — and where it " was? 

Perhaps she had forgotten whether ‘ it ' was a boy or a 
girl. ‘ Can a mother forget her sucking child Well- 
some mothers do." 

‘‘ And what did you reply?" Mrs. Trevena could scarcely 
speak for agitation. 


126 


KING AETHUR. 


Least said^ soonest mended — I never answered one 
single word. 

Thank you — thank you! Did you keep the letter: 
What address was given? 

“ Mrs. Franklin has it. Some milliner or dress-maker, 
I think, in London. 

In London A shudder of repulsion and dread passed 
over Susannah; and then that stern sense of justice, so 
strong in her, conquered it. Perhaps she was a dress- 
maker — some poor working-woman who was almost starv- 
ing, aiid did not wish her baby to starve too. 

“ Pshaw! Does that boy look like the son of a working- 
woman? And it was herself she wanted to save from star- 
vation, not her baby. No, no, ma’am; I saw her — ^you 
never did. She used always to rave about being a ‘ woman 
of genius ’ — very likely an actress or singer — that very 
singer who ran away from Milan. ” 

I have sometimes thought so. And the musical fac- 
ulty descends. Just listen to that boy.” 

Arthur was singing Dulce domum ” at the top of his 
voice — a rather cracked voice now; but it was not ignorant 
singing — ^he evidently knew what he was about. 

‘ ^ Music is his passion, as it is with many a boy, till the 
work of the world knocks it out of him. But this letter — 
Stop, there’s the Tawton Abbas carriage — let us step aside. ” 

For Mrs. T revena felt that to interchange polite nothings 
with the great lady would, at this moment, be beyond her 
power. She and Dr. Franklin passed under a grou}) of 
trees, so that Lady Damerel never saw them. 

Arthur, however, did not step aside. He ceased his gay 
school-song, and standing on the grass, lifted his hat, as 
the carriage drove by, with a gesture so carelessly graceful, 
so unlike country youths in general, that Lady Damerel 
turned to look after him. 

He was, in truth, worth looking at, in his rough gray 
clothes, with a gray cap set on the top of his crisp fair curls 


KIKG ARTHUK. 


127 


— it was before the time when the fashion made yoiing men 
crop themselves like returned convicts. Lithe and slender 
as a young David, and in manner neither shy nor forward, 
because thinking more of other people than himself— Ar- 
thur never came to, and had now quite passed, that awk- 
ward stage when a boy does not know what to do with him- 
self, and especially Avith his legs and arms. 

It was no wonder, Mrs. Trevena thought, that Lady Da- 
merel, indifferent as she was to her neighbors, should turn 
and glance after him. 

Poor woman said she, explaining to Dr. Franklin a 
little of the domestic history of Tawton Abbas. I dare 
say she would give the world to have a son like mine.^^ 

May be. But there are mothers — and mothers, like 
the woman we were talking about. Shall I tell Mr^. Frank- 
lin to send you her letter? if she hasn^t burned it, which 
perhaps may have been the best thing. 

‘‘ Perhaps,^ ^ echoed Susannah, wishing in her heart — 
though her conscience reproached her — that it might be 
burned, and forgotten. ‘‘ It could do no good to Arthur. 

No, for the lad doesn^t care a straw about his mother. 

‘‘lam his mother, said Susannah, with a certain grave 
dignity. 

“ YoiPre right, ma^am. May he never have any other 
as long as he lives 

But mothers, even the happiest mothers of the best of 
sons, have their anxieties. 

Some days after this. Dr. Franklin, with the practical 
common sense of a man of the world, asked his godson, 
very naturally, what he was going to be? 

Arthur hesitated, and looked uncomfortable. His moth- 
er, thinking tliis arose from diffidence or modesty, answered 
for him. 

“ My son^s career is already cut out for him. There are 
six New College scholarships given at Winchester every 
year. Arthur is so good at mathematics, the liead-mastei' 


128 


KlXCr AHTHUR. 


tells US, that he is quite sure of one. He will go in for it 
next year and take himself to college as he did to school. 
Then — a boy who has earned his own education can gen- 
erally earn his own living; especially at Oxford. 

But, mother, said Arthur slowly, “ I may not go to 
Oxford at all. I mean to be a musician. 

A what?^’ cried Dr. Frankhn, bursting into laughter. 
“ A street-singer, or an organ-grinder, going about the 
country with a monkey and a couple of white mice!^^ 

Didicule is the sharpest of weapons with the young. Arthur 
turned white with anger, but controlled himself, and ex- 
plained that a friend of Ms, just returned from a German 
Conservatoire, had advised him to go there and study mu- 
sic as a profession. 

At whose expense, my boy?^^ asked Dr. Franklin, dry- 

ly- 

Arthur colored. I doiiT know. I have never thought. 

“ But you ought to think — ^you are old enough. How 
old?^^ 

‘‘Eighteen past. Next year I should go in for the 
scholarship, if I go in at all. Mother?’^ 

She did not answer. It was the first time she had heard 
of this idea; the first time her boy had kept back anything 
from her, or that his will had run counter to hers, never 
an arbitrary will. From his very childhood, as soon as he 
could reason at all, she had taught him to use his reason, 
and had never from him exacted blind obedience. Expla- 
nation, whenever possible, she gave; and her argument was 
never “ Do it because I command it, but, “ Do it because 
it is right. ” 

This fancy of Arthur ^s struck her with a sharp pain. 

No wonder she looked sad and grave — and even the second 
anxious appeal — “ What do you say, mother?^ ^ brought no 
response. Just then Mr. Trevena was heard calling all 
over the house, “ Susannah— Susannah I’ ^ — as he usually 


KING ABTHUR. 139 

did if he missed her for five minutes, and she hurried away 
without having said a word. 

‘^Well, young man? You are a nice young man, to 
make your mother look like that! Still nicer to expect 
your father to maintain you in expensive study for the next 
five or ten years. 

Arthur fluslied crimson. He liked his godfather sincere- 
ly; still, Dr. Franklin often “rubbed him up the wrong 
way. It was the contrast between the practical and the 
artistic temperament; the born democrat, and — well. Heaven 
only knew what Arthur’s birth was, but he looked the 
young “ aristocrat,” every inch of him. 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “ I had no 
idea of vexing my mother; and I wish to stand on my own 
feet as soon as ever I can. ” 

“ That’s right, lad. I did it, before I was your age. I 
was message-boy at a chemist’s store. But I soon went 
ahead — we all go ahead in the States. Our motto is 
‘ Every man for himself, and ’ — taking off his cap reverent- 
ly — ‘ God for us all.’ That’s what I said to my six sons,” 
continued he. “I gave them a good education, and then I 
left them to shift for themselves. And they have done it 
— uncommonly well, too. There isn’t one of them now 
that ever wants a cent from his father.” • 

“ I hope I shall not from mine — at least, not for rery 
long,” said Arthur, proudly. 

“ That’s right, my boy; for Mr. Trevena isn’t as young 
as he has been, and he has another incumbrance besides 
yourself — that little girl your mother told me of 
her name?” 

Hanny.” 

“ I hear she’s a plucky little thing, and means to go out 
as a governess — ^which is quite right. A woman should 
earn her own bread as well as a man. But if her uncle 
helped anybody, he ought to help her; because, you see, 
she is his own flesh and blood, and you — ” 

5 


130 


KING AETHUE. 


I understands^ And again came that violent blnsh^ 
which showed what keen sensitiveness lurked under Ar- 
thur’s merry and manly outside. Then, speaking with evi- 
dent effort, ‘‘ Godfather, you are right to remind me of 
that. Tell me — for I believe you were present at my birth 
— who were my father and mother 

“ My poor lad, I declare to you I haven’t the slightest 
idea.” 

They had gone outside the drawing-room window, and 
were lying on the grassy slope — the Kentuckian puffing at 
his pipe, and Arthur sitting beside him, his arms round his 
knees, gazing straight forward, with a graver expression 
than his wont. Dr. Franklin scanned him sharply. 

‘‘ It was an awkward business, Arthur. If I were you,. 
I’d think about it as little as possible.” 

‘‘So do I. As mother often says, a man is responsible 
for himself and his children, but certainly not for his par- 
ents. Still I should like to know all I can.” 

“ How much has your mother told you?” 

“ Only that you found me — you and she — somewhere in 
the Alps. I suppose I had a father and a mother, but she 
never speaks of them at all. ” 

“ Bravo!” muttered Dr. Franklin. But he himself felt 
no inclination fpr sucli generous reticence; he thought it 
fairer on all sides that the boy should know everything; so 
he then and there told him everything. 

Arthur listened, his cap drawn over his eyes, his hands — 
such long, slender, beautiful hands — clasped together round 
his knees. 

“Thank you,'" he said at last. “lam glad I know. 
The — old lady — was, you suppose, an opera-singer?” 

‘ I don’t say that, but it’s possible.” 

“ And she s.old me, you say~sold me for twenty pounds?’-’ 

“Yes.” He was just on the point of adding, “and 
she’d like to buy you back again now,” when he remem- 
bered Mrs. Trevena’s caution, that until they heard from 


KII^G AKTHUE. 


131 


America they should say nothing about the letter. It would 
not benefit Arthur — perhaps only unsettle him. And they 
had the dress-maker^s address; while the unmotherly mother 
— her brief note, if hers, was. Dr. Franklin declared, ‘‘as 
cold as a stone — had to them no clew whatever. “ All 
the better!^’ thought he. And Mr. and Mrs. Trevena just 
then appearing, he ended the conversation. 

It was not renewed; though he stayed some days longer 
at the rectory. The annual garden-party at Tawton Abbas 
was coming off, and the old Kentuckian said he should 
like to “ study life in an English country-house. So in 
addition to the invitation for “ Mr. and Mrs. Trevena, and 
Mr. Trevena, junior (‘‘you see, mother — laughed 
Arthur — “ your fine lady doesnT even take the trouble to 
discover my Christian name ^ — a note was sent to Tawton 
Abbas for permission to bring “ a friend from America 
to join the party. 

“ Then you’ll not want me,” said Arthur, very reluctant 
to go. But his mother wished it. He had been unlike 
himself, she thought, the last day or two; and though she 
had carefully abstained from reviving the Oxford question 
till Dr. Frankhn was gone, still she saw that something 
was on his mind. He followed her about with extra ten- 
derness, divining all she wanted, and doing everything for 
her more like a girl than a boy. But he said nothing until 
they were walking together across the park to the garden- 
party; only they two, for Dr. Franklin had home letters to 
write by the mail, and he and Mr. Trevena could not ap- 
pear till late. 

So Susannah had her boy all to herself; and very nice 
he looked, and very proud she was of him. He was proud 
of her, too, he said, after eying her over with the sharp 
criticism of youth — approving her new dress, and wishing 
she would wear it every day. 

“ But I can’t afford silk every day,” said she, laughing. 
•‘T am not Lady Damerel.” 


132 


KING ARTHUR. 


‘'No, thank goodness! I wouldn't change my little 
mother for a dozen Lady Damerels. " 

“ Well, then. I'll try to dress a little better and talk a 
little more, just to please you and papa. I am glad my 
son is not ashamed of me." 

“ I hope my mother is not ashamed of me," said Arthur, 
gravely. And then he told her in a few words — so few that 
it was easy to see how deeply he felt — of the conversation 
between his godfather and himself; and how he had made 
up his mind to go in for mathematics and give up music 
entirely. 

Susannah breathed a sigh of thankfulness, and then re- 
plied, “Not entirely, my son. Music may still be your 
pleasure — your staff, if not your crutch. " 

“ Not at present. I love it so that I must give it up, if 
I mean to be anything. And I do mean to be something, 
some day," added he, tossing his head and planting his 
foot firmly on the ground. 

The young think the old were never young. It did not 
occur to Arthur that his quiet little mother felt her heart 
throb while he spoke. She, too, had had her dreams — of 
fame, ambition, love — had written verses by the yards and 
stories by the dozen; yes, she had earned her bread as a 
daily governess, and finally would end her days as the old 
wife of' a country parson. But she had eaten cheerfully 
the dry bread of existence, and made it sweet by thankful- 
ness. Though tears were in her eyes now, they were not 
regretful tears. 

“ I think, Arthur, you are right. The secret of life is 
not to do what one likes, but to try to like that which one 
has to do. And one does come to like it — in time." 

‘ ‘ Yes, mother. And if I turn out a great Oxford don — 
shall you be pleased? Would you hke me to make a name 
for myself? — the only name I've got," added he, with a 
slight bitterness of tone, which went to Susannah's heart. 
“So I'll go in for the scholarship at New College, and 


KIKG AETHUK. 


133 


papa need not spend a halfpenny upon me at Oxford- 
Then — poor little Nanny need not he a governess/^ 

What made you think of Nanny asked Mrs. Trevena, 
with some surprise. For the children, had scarcely met for 
years, until lasfc week, and then only for a few hours; since 
Arthur came home at night, and Nanny left next morning. 
She had been very shy with him, and he had treated her 
with the majestic bearing of a big boy toward a very little 
girl. 

‘‘ My godfather said papa ought to help Nanny and not 
me. He is right; she is a girl — and she is papa^s own.'’^ 

‘‘ And you are my own!"’'’ answered Susannah, with the 
passionate tenderness that she so seldom expressed. But 
she said no more. The wisdom of parents sometimes lies 
in accepting rather than in making sacrifices. 

Arthur found himself less miserable than he had expect- 
ed to be at the garden-party, even though it was, as some 
one graphically described, ‘‘ a penn’orth of all sorts, 
through which the hostess moved like a condescending 
queen. She had various out-door amusements for the in- 
ferior folk — performing dogs, hand-bell ringers, etc. — and 
for her choicer guests there was very good music in the 
drawing-room. She looked politely surprised when she 
saw the Trevenas eagerly listening. 

‘‘ Do you play or sing, Mrs. Trevena?” 

‘‘ No, but my son does. ” 

‘‘ Oh, indeed.” 

Here Mr, Hardy, the High Church curate, said a word 
or two, which caused the great lady to put up her pince-nez 
(she was old enough to wear spectacles, but never would) 
and scan Arthur sharply. 

Most elderly women — mothers or not — like to look at a 
graceful handsome boy. As this childless woman did so,, 
a vexed expression passed over her face— not regret or pain, 
but a sort of irritation. An outcry against Providence, 
Mrs. Trevena thought it was, and felt sorry for her, till 


134 


KING ARTHUE. 


Lady Damerel broke into the most gracious of careless 
smiles. 

‘‘Perhaps Mr. ■, I forget his Christian name — Mr. 

Trevena will come to our rescue in accompanying a trio.^ 
Our own pianist has not come. And our soprano says she 
is too hoarse to sing. Me are very unfortunate.^’ 

“ Not if we can induce you to take her place,” said some 
one near. “ You know you have sung, Lady Damerel. ” 

“ Oh,, yes — a little — when I was a girl,” said she care- 
lessly, listening to the touch of Arthur’s long fingers on 
the keys — the magic touch which all musicians recognize. 
It was a magnificent piano, and the artist’s delight over- 
came the boy’s shyness. 

“ Play' something,” she said; and Arthur played — ex- 
ceedingly well. “ Do you read at sight?” and she placed 
the trio before him. It was one of those dashing operatic 
scenas of the last generation, full of show and difliculty, 
and embellished fiorihore. Arthur dashed into it — so 
did the tenor and bass — and finally, as if she could not 
help it, the soprano. 

Lady Damerel must have had a fine voice once; and even 
now had the brilliant remains of it; a thoroughly culti- 
vated voice — not tender, not pathetic, but high and flexible 
as a musical instrument, and capable of executing those 
wonderful tours de force wliich “ bring the house down. ” 
She did it now; seeming quite to forget herself in the pleas- 
ure of her own performance; so much so that she thought 
necessary to apologize. 

“lam almost too old to sing — but I used to like it once. 
Now — in my position — with my many social duties — of 
course a lady is different from a professional.” 

You might have been a professional, ma’am: you sing ^ 
so splendidly. I never heard anything better, even in 
America. ” 

The honest Kentuckian had been standing outside the 
open French window, and now walked in — in his enthusi- 


ki:n'Ct akthur. 


13S 


asm not waiting to be introduced. When Mr. Trevena 
mentioned Doctor Franklin/^ Lady Damerel suddenly 
turned round. 

I guess you never saw an American before. And per- 
haps, ma^’am, in my compliments to your singing, I was 
more honest than polite. But when we like a thing we also 
like to say so.^^ ' 

Lady Damerel bowed. She looked white — possibly with, 
the exertion of singing. 

Americans a fine country, ma^am, and weWe some 
uncommonly fine singers there — fine women, too, especially 
in the South. You remind me of my country-women ex- 
ceedingly. 

Again Lady Damerel bowed, rather haughtily; and sat 
down, almost hiding her face with her large fan. But no- 
blush came to her cheek except the permanent one which it 
owed to art: and she had the stereotyped smile of a person 
well used to flattery. 

Mrs. Travena, rather annoyed at her good friend^s blunt- 
ness, took the first opportunity of getting him away — much 
to his amusement. 

I wanted to talk to Lady Damerel. She^s an uncom- 
monly handsome woman still, and very like an American. 

I wonder where she was raised. I^’m sure Fve seen her 
somewhere — or somebody very like her. Has she got a sis- 
ter, do you know? And what sort of a fellow is the hus- 
bandry^ 

Poor Sir Charles was meekly seated outside in his self- 
propelled chair; speaking to few people, and apparently 
very much afraid of everybody, especially his wife; for he 
kept out of her way as much as possible. Wreck as he was, 
he had a refined, amiable face — and stretched out a long 
feeble hand, knotted and distorted with rheumatism, to the 
stranger. 

Glad to see you — glad to see you — and so will my wife 
be. Lady Damerel is an American. 


136 


KIl^Q AETHUR. 


‘‘Eh! why didn^t she say so?’^ muttered the doctor; 
and, after a few words of civil conversation, went back to 
the drawing-room and watched her again. She sung no 
more, but stood talking, or rather listening, the center of a 
group of talkers, with a polite absent smile, melting grad- 
ually into the weary dissatisfaction which was the perma- 
nent expression of her face whenever she ceased speaking. 

“ That isnT a happy woman, or a good woman, said 
the doctor to Mrs. Trevena. 

“ Perhaps if she were happy she might he good. ” 

“ I donT believe it. People make their own bed— nearly 
always — and as they make it they have to lie upon it. What 
a life she must have led that poor old fellow! Is she his 
'second wife, do you think 

“ No. He once told my husband they had been mar- 
I’ied over thirty years, and had had four children — two 
boys first, and then two girls — all of whom are dead. She 
never cared for them, he said; hut the poor old man 
seemed to have been fond of his children. 

“ IVe seen her before — I^m certain I have,^^ said Dr. 
Erankhn meditatively, as he leaned against the window 
outside; watching everybody and ever3nthing, but himself 
unobserved. “ There, she has taken off her gloves. I al- 
ways notice hands; they are as characteristic as faces. And 
what a diamond ring!^^ 

The Kentuckian was beginning a whistle — a long, loud 
whistle of intense astonishment — ^but stopped himself. 

“ Good Lord! Yes. I was right. I have seen her before. 
IPs the very woman.-’’ 

“ What woman?” asked Susannah innocently. She had 
drifted away from the subject, and become absorbed in 
weak contemplation — of her boy, of course! his graceful 
figure, his happy, handsome, interested face, as he stood 
talking to the tenor singer. In looking at him and think- 
ing of his future — how soon he would be a man — and what 
a good, clever, noble man he was likely to be — a common 


KING ARTHUR. 


137 


delusion of mothers! she had entirely forgotten Lady 
Damerel. 

What woman, Mrs. Trevena?^^ echoed Dr. Frankhn 
in a sharp whisper. “ AVhy — that woman at Audermatt.^^ 


CHAPTER VII. . 

There is an old comedy entitled “The Wonder! A 
Woman keeps a Secret!'’^ Its author could have known 
very little of human nature. How many secrets, not always 
their own, do women keep every day — out of love, or a 
sense of honor, or even pure pity! What wonderful strength 
they possess in hiding what they wish to hide! able to smile 
with a breaking heart — to wrap their robes smoothly and 
even gracefully over the beast that is gnawing their vitals. 
Men may be very good at concealment on some affairs — es- 
pecially their own; but for absolute silence — ^years long — 
Life long, if necessary — there is, in spite of the old dramatist, 
no secret keeper like a woman. 

When Dr. Franklin made the discovery of “ the woman 
at Andermatt — who, by the bye, must have kept her se- 
cret pretty well — Mrs. Trevena, startled as she was, had 
strength to whisper “Hush!"’^ for her husband was close 
behind them, and Arthur in front; and 'the good doctor 
had the sense to take the hint, and also to suggest that she 
was looking tired, and they had better go home. 

“ Make my excuses to Lady Damerel. She wonT miss 
me very much," said he to the unconscious rector, and, 
tucking Mrs. Trevena under his arm, he walked away. 

Hot too soon. Susannah tottered blindly — almost with- 
out speaking a word — along the path which led to the rec- 
tory. But as soon as she got home she fainted outright. 

However, it was too serious a crisis for any outward be- 
trayal. Dr. Franklin brought her to herself without telling 
the servants, and by the time Mr. Trevena and Arthur came 


138 


KING ARTHUR. 


Iback, he and she had talked the whole thing calmly over, 
and made up their minds to keep it at present entirely be- 
tween their two selves. 

That the boy was Lady DamereTs son — ^her legitimate 
son — was more than possible — probable; but how was this 
to be proved? Not by herself — she dared not. Having 
concealed his birth so long — for Sir Charles, in speaking 
of his four children, was evidently quite ignorant that he 
had had a fifth child — ^to confess her folly, or wickedness, 
to the world and her husband, would entail an amount of 
iscandal that few women could dare to brave. Born in wed- 
lock the boy undoubtedly was; but what wife^s fair fame 
could come out quite unspotted after such a disclosure? 

‘‘To run away from her husband — whether or not she 
went alone — to hide for months from liim — ^to conceal her 
baby^s birth and then sell it for twenty pounds — Phew!^^ 
said the doctor with his low, long whistle, which meant so 
much. “You are quite saf^, ma^am. SheTl never own 
her son — she dare not.^^ 

Susannah looked up. She had at first been utterly 
stunned — now there came upon her a sort of despair, or 
rather desperation — the blind fury which poets describe as 
that of “ a lioness robbed of her whelps. 

“He is my son— mine! No one has any right to him 
but me.'’^ 

- “ That true,^^ answered Hr. Franklin soothingly. “ And 
I doubt if Arthur would wish to have any mother but you. 
As for that woman there, she has tied up her own hands, 
•cut her own throat, as one may say. He^d never care two- 
pence for her; As for herself, it isnT a son she wants, it^s 
an heir to the baronetcy. Let her be. It serves her right. 

Such were the good doctor ^s arguments. Susannah^s 
brain whirled so, that for a wonder she let another lead 
her, and did not attempt to think out the question for her- 
self. When, two hours after, Arthur came in, bright 
and gay, having been exceedingly amused, especially by 


KIKG ARTHUK. 


139 


“ that dreadful Lady Damerel — who is one big sham from 
top to toe— though she does sing so splendidly — the whole 
thing seemed a ghastly nightmare, out of which she should 
wake soon and find it nothing. 

Yet when she did wake next morning — after lying awake 
half the night — ah! well she understood those pathetic lines: 

“ The tears o’ my heart fa’ in showers frae my ee’ 

While my gudemen sleeps soun’ by me.” 

— then, Susannah found that yesterday had been not quite 
nothing. The mental agony, the perpetual self-restraint 
which it imposed, were so hard to bear that she was almost 
relieved when Dr. Franklin, who was obliged to leave next 
day, proposed taking hi's godson with him; and Arthur^ 
with a boy’s natural delight at the idea of seeing London, 
was eager to go. 

“ But not if you want me, mother. I’ll not go anywhere,, 
or do anything, that you don’t wish.” 

I only wish what is for your good, my darling!” She 
had of late given up all pet names, knowing how school-boys 
dislike them; but to-day she felt he was her darling— the 
very core of her heart, and the delight of her eyes — in whose 
future she had re-embarked many a shipwrecked hope, 
many a broken dream. With difficulty she restrained her- 
self from falling on Arthur’s neck in a burst of bitter tears. 

It is for his good,” said Dr. Franklin, with emphasis,, 
and yet with a compassionate look in his kind eyes. “ Give 
him a bit of pleasure with me, and then let him set to 
work. It’s the best thing in the world for a lad to be 
obliged to work. Far better for him ” — this was said with 
meaning and decision — far better than if he were heir to a 
title and several thousands a year.” 

“Thank you — God bless you!” murmured Mrs. Tre- 
vena, as she wrung her friend’s hand at parting; feeling that 
under his rough speech and queer un-English ways there 
lay hidden a heart of gold. 


140 


KING AKTHUR. 


After awhile, her agony of apprehension, her feeling 
that the whole world was slipping away from under her 
feet, slowly subsided. Ltfe at the rectory went on as usual 
. — nothing happened — nobody came. She did not see Lady 
Lamerel at church, for Sir Charles had caught cold at the 
garden-party; an attack of rheumatism severer than ordi- 
nary had supervened; and the village heard, with little inter- 
est, that he and ‘‘ my lady had gone to Bath for several 
months. Tawton Abbas was shut up, and the rector and 
his wife wandered at ease about the lovely park — she with 
the strangest of feelings, and sometimes, in spite of what 
Dr. Franklin had said, vvith a doubt whether she were right 
or wrong in accepting the position of things, and letting all 
drift on in silence, as heretofore. 

It may seem almost incredible, even in tliis simple- 
minded and unworldly woman — ^but the last thing she 
thought of was the worldly benefits — the title and estate to 
which her Arthur might be the lawful heir. Had he been 
proved the legitimate son of worthy parents, she could have 
given him up, she thought, though it broke her heart — but 
to give him up to such as Lady Damerel — never! 

Better that he should begin life simply as an adopted 
son — work his own way in the world, and win a name for 
himself, for which he was indebted to nobody. Unworthy 
parents are worse than none. 

Three months had gone by, and Arthur was just coming 
home for Christmas, after having worked ‘‘ like a brick, 
he wu’ote, and being in cheerful hope of the scholarship — 
before Mrs. Trevena found herself again face to face with 
the woman whom she believed to be her boy^s mother. 

It happened in this wise — apparently by accident. Lady 
Damerel suddenly appeared at church; having come to 
Tawton Abbas for three days, to order the distribution of 
ooals, blankets, and Christmas beef — she never omitted 
those external duties by which many people square accounts 
with Heaven, and keep up a good character on earth. Con- 


KING ARTHUK. 


141 


seqiiently she always went to church, rain or fair — and this 
day there fell a heavy Storm of December rain. The rector 
and his wife found her lingering near the chancel door. 

“ Will you give me shelter for a few minutes?^’’ she asked, 
in her sweetest and most condescending manner; and Mr. 
Trevena courteously escorted her under his umbrella to the 
rectory. 

She had seldom been there; only for one or two formal 
calls; but now she sat down in the little drawing-room as if 
she meant friendliness rather than formality. After some 
courteous small talk about Sir Charleses illness, and the 
cause of it, chiefly directed to Mr. Trevena — Lady Damerel 
was always charming to gentlemen — she said carelessly — 
You went away from my garden-party quite early, Mrs. 
Trevena, before I had time to speak to that tall friend of 

yours — Mr. what was his name? An American, did 

you say? I rather like Americans. 

Susannah was not a coward — her husband sometimes 
said of her, with his tender jesting, that she “ would go up 
to a cannon •’s mouth ^ ’ — if necessary. She felt something 
like it now. Looking full in Lady DamereTs face, she 
I'eplied : 

“ He is not Mr. but Dr. Franklin, acountiyman of yours 
(Sir Charles said you are American) — and a physician in 
Hew York.^^ 

“Ah! Hew York. But I am Southern. I was born in 
Baltimore.^'’ 

“ He said you reminded him of the Baltimore belles,^^ 
innocently observed the recto;’. “ He thought he had met 
you somewhere. He is an excellent man. We made 
acquaintance with him long ago, when traveling abroad; 
where he once did my wife, and me too, what has turned out 
to be a great service. Our son, whom of course you know 
all about, is his godson.^’ 

“ Oh, indeed, carelessly answered Lady Damerel, with 


142 


KING ARTHUR. 


the air of a person not much interested in other people 
affairs. Has your friend gone back to America?^^ 

“ He sailed yesterday — Arthur went to Liverpool to see 
him off.’’^ 

How kind! By the way, that son of yours — I must 
secure him as our accompanist next time I have musical 
people in the house. He plays extremely well. Is he to be 
a professional?^^ 

Oh no!^^ said the rector with something more than dis- 
taste. “ He is trying for a scholarship at New College,. 
Oxford, which his Winchester masters think he is sure to 
get. He is a very clever, as well as a diligent boy.-^-’ 

And the good, unobservant, unreticent Austin went into 
details about Arthur ^s future university career, without 
noticing the absent smile with which Lady Damerel listened; 
most people-^even parents — are indifferent enough to other 
people^s children. 

Ah, yes — Mr. Arthur^s success must be a great pleas- 
ure to his father and mother. My children were never 
clever, nor handsome either, poor little things! Your son 
is your only one, I conclude? Born late in life, and of 
course his parents^ darling ?^^ 

All this while Susannah had sat silently observant — also, 
not a little amazed. First, at the extraordinary self-com- 
mand of the woman, supposing she really was the woman 
that Dr. Franklin believed her to be; and next, that she 
should be so ignorant of her neighbors^ affairs as never to 
have heard about Arthur. And yet this was not impossi- 
ble. In eighteen years the story had died out; people had 
accepted him so completely as the rectoFs son — at least in 
the village; and beyond it the* Trevenas knew almost nobody. 
With a sudden desperate resolve Susannah determined to> 
^ put Lady Damerel to the test — to tell her the facts, which 
she must hear ere long, and which it was astonishing she 
had never heard before. “ Tell the truth and shame the 
devil '"—but it was equally to exorcise the devil — ^that.evil 


KING ARTHUR. 143 

spirit which prompted her, the gentle Mrs. Trevena, to fly 
at Lady Damerehs throat and strangle her. 

Looking her full in the face she said distinctly, I think 
you do not understand — though it is surprising you should 
never have heard — that Arthur is not our own son; we 
have no living children. Dr. Franklin found him for us, 
and advised us to adopt him. We do not know who were 
his parents, but he was born at Andermatt, in Switzer- 
land.'’’ 

Human nature can nnt altogether suppress itself. What- 
ever Lady Damerel had come to seek, she had evidently 
found something she neither sought nor desired. Her cheek 
grew ghastly under its paint. She clutched the arm of the 
ehair as if to save herself from falling. Even the unob- 
servant Austin could not help seeing something was amiss, 
and, courteously observing that the room was veiy hot, 
went to open the window. 

‘‘ Thank you — ^butlam not ill — only fatigued — worn out 
with nursing my husband.” And then, turning round to 
Susannah with that mechanical smile which people learn to 
use in society as well as on the stage, she said — It is kind 
of you to give me this confidence. I did not know the boy 
was not your own. He is — a fine boy — and does you great 
credit.” 

And again that ghastly pallor — was it emotion or only 
fear? — came over her face, till Mr. Trevena offered to fetch 
her a glass of wine, and looked toward his wife for sympathy 
and assistance. 

But there was no jiity — ^not a jot! — in Susannah’s eyes, 
or in her hard, cold voice. 

Lady Damerel should have ordered her carriage. I am 
sorry I have no servant here to send. And my son is not 
at home. ” 

‘‘My son.” There was no mistaking the word — or its 
meaning — its intentional meaning. Lady Damerel re- 
moved her hand from her eyes, and the two women steadily 


144 


KIN^G ARTHUE, 


regarded oUe another. In that moment both recognized, 
without need of words, that each was in possession of the 
other'^s secret, and that between them there was war to the 
knife. All the more deadly because it was a silent war — 
confined entirely to their two selves. The two mothers be- 
tween whom King Solomon judged could not hate one 
another with a more deadly hatred than these — the fiesh- 
and-blood mother who had thrown her blessing away; the 
real mother who had found it, and kept it — yes, and would 
keep it, in defiance of the whole world. 

Susannah, just and tender woman as she was, could on 
occasion be a stern woman too. She had no belief in 
parental rights, or any rights at all, without their corre- 
sponding duties. Years ago she carried off little Kanny, 
and would have hidden her from her father, separated them 
entirely, by fair means or foul, until the child was old 
enough not to be harmed by the man to whom she owed 
nothing but the mere accident of paternity. What Mrs, 
Trevena then did — and would have persisted in doing had 
not fate made it unnecessary — from pure pity, without any 
personal love for Kanny — would she not be ready now to do 
for her own Arthur? 

Had Lady Damerel confessed all, and begged for the boy 
— perhaps even then Mrs. Trevena might have had no 
mercy. She might have said, with Dr. Franklin — As 
you made your bed you must lie on it — and dared the 
unworthy mother to win one atom of either duty or affec- 
tion from the son she had cast away. But if any struggle 
as to the right course was in Susannah^s mind, she soon saw 
it was wholly unnecessary. 

‘‘ Self preservation is the first law of nature, says the 
philosopher; and though sometimes experience has con- 
• tradicted this — especially in the case of mothei’s — it exists 
still. 

After a minute or two Lady Damerel rose, her usual 
stately self, and addressed the rector: 


KING ARTHUK. 


145 

The rain has abated now, and I must not trouble you 
any longer. I will walk home, for I never like to use the 
carriage on Sundays, except for Sir Charles. We think of 
trying the German spas immediately — so this must be a 
farewell visit. Make my compliments to your son — I 
mean your adopted son — and say I congratulate him and 
his parents. 

Evidently the so-called maternal instinct was not in the 
woman. Whether from conscious guilt or cowardice, she 
had apparently not the slightest intention of acknowledg- 
ing her child. A few words of polite adieu, and she had 
made her escape, having betrayed absolutely nothing. 

Susannah was thankful that she too had betrayed nothing 
— that she had had strength all these months to bear her 
own burden and trouble no one. The crisis had come, and 
passed. Now she could breathe again. 

Many more weeks and months went by; and untroubled 
peace. Arthur was at Winchester — Sir Charles and Lady 
Damerel were traveling abroad. Nothing had happened: 
and she began to feel that nothing would happen: that she 
might hve and die — dying did not seem so far off at nearly 
sixty — with her secret unrevealed, keeping Arthur as her 
son till death. 

He seemed more than ever her son, when coming back 
for summer holidays — triumphant too, for he had gained 
his scholarship, and was going up to Oxford next term — he 
found his ‘‘dear little mother a good deal changed. 
Her pretty brown hair had grown silver-white; her bright 
cheerfulness — the gayety of sound pure health, though she 
was never robust — had greatly departed. He could not 
understand it. She said she was “ quite well — “ quite 
happy — but she seemed so quiet, so suddenly changed 
from a middle-aged into an old woman. He wondered 
nobody saw it — ^not even her husband. 

“ Papa,^^ he said, “ I think mother wants a little nursing 
and companionship. When I am gone to Oxford, suppose 


146 


KmG AKTHUK. 


you send for Nanny? Let her come a day or two before I 
leave, and Fll teach her how to take care of mother; only 
she is such a child still — perhaps she might not under- 
stand. 

But in spite of Arthur ^s gentle patronizing, and firm 
conviction that nobody could take care of his mother except 
himself — it was found that Nancy did understand; that 
Miss Grogan had made a little woman of her already, and 
a capital nurse. Neat, accurate, practical : chary of words 
but prompt in deeds; and doing everything necessary with- 
out making any unnecessary fuss about it, Nanny, though 
at first not exactly welcome to her aunt, soon became so, 
as well as to her uncle. And though still small, dark, and 
plain, there was a sweetness in her brown eyes, a fairy 
lightness in her dainty figure, which made her decidedly 
not ugly. Youth never is ugly, unless it has got an ugly 
soul. 

‘‘ She^s not so bad, is .she, mother?’^ said Arthur, after 
the first two days. She isn^t a beauty certainly — she 
doesn^t sweep about the room like Lady Damerel; but I 
hate tall women! No woman should ever be bigger than 
my little mother. Nanny will never be pretty— like you 
— but she^s a nice little thing. 

What mother could resist such tender flattery from a big 
son, not twenty yet, but fully six feet high? What mother 
could look into that boyish face — knowing the heart was as 
innocent as the face — and not feel that whatever he said 
w^as true, and whatever he did was right? 

As for the nice little thing — ^was it surprising that 
she adored Arthur? as she had done ever since she was a 
small child; though she had ceased to show it now — at least 
not veiy much — but Mrs. Trevena saw it in her eyes, and 
sometimes felt a little sorry for Nanny. Still, the child 
was only a child; and Arthur could not be expected to take 
much notice of her — such a man as he was grown — and just 


KTXG AKTHUR. 


147 


going up to Oxford. Nor did lie notice her at first; being 
absorbed by his matriculation-work. 

But all young creatures like one another's company; and 
when of summer evenings the children went off a walk 
together^ leaving Mr. and Mrs. Trevena sitting quietly in 
the arbor, Susannah said to herself that it w^as quite 
natural. 

She herself could not take long walks now — nor could 
she see to read and sew as she once did.. She had made 
over her work-box to the busy useful fingers of Nann}^ 
And instead of reading of evenings, she sat with her hands 
folded, and thought — we often like thinking as we grow 
old. Only it is not of ourselves we think; our day is all 
done — it is of other people. 

Strange it was — and yet perhaps not strange — that the 
last subject which entered Mrs. Trevena^s mind should 
have been that which was most probable, most natural; 
the story even now beginning to act itself out under her 
very eyes. The old story, ever new, and w^hich will be 
new until the end of the world. 

She had enacted it herself more than forty years ago,, 
for she was very young when she first met Austin Trevena; 
and yet it never struck her to think of her boy as anything 
but a boy, or of Nanny except his small girl-satellite — 
circling round him with untiring and perfectly natural 
devotion, but of no importance to him whatever. That 
one was nearly a man, and the other — alas! — perhaps quite 
a woman, did not occur to Susannah. 

Nor, for a good while, to the young people themselves. 
Their relations from childhood upward had been completely 

Vun qui aime, V autre que se laisse etre aime ” — rather 
liked it indeed, in an innocent way, for Arthur was neither 
selfish nor conceited. He had never had a sister, and 
honestly accepted Nanny as such: teased her, petted her, 
and took counsel of her by turns: ruled her, yet was led by 
her— for the little quiet girl had a strong will of her own; 


148 


KII^G ARTHUK. 


and the winning power that many plain-looking but sweet- 
natured woman have, even over the other sex. And 
neither he nor any one else suspected that he was gradually 
slipping into what worldly mothers would call an ‘‘en- 
tanglement — ^but of which the knots are often woven by 
a kindly Providence to be a man^s protection throughout 
life. Especially such an one as Arthur, who, out of his 
very simplicity, affectionateness, and lack of personal 
vanity, was likely to attract every woman he came near. 

It was not an ordinary “ falling in love — ^that headlong 
tumble which parents and guardians so dread; but a grad- 
ual gliding into love; love awaking so early that the young 
people understood neither its nature nor its name. For 
instance, the caress began when, the child^s poor mother 
lying dead in the next room, Susannah had said, “ Arthur, 
kiss Nanny — was continued quite naturally, at meetings 
and partings, until the very day that Arthur left for Ox- 
ford; when his mother noticed, with some momentary sur- 
prise, that they merely shook hands. But she soon forgot 
it — ^her own heart was so full. And when the little Nanny, 
who found her wandering forlornly about the empty house 
— so very empty now Arthur was gone — took her hand and 
kissed it, Mrs. Trevena embraced her with a burst of feel- 
ing, as being the one other person who missed Arthur near- 
ly as much as his mother did. 

Shortly afterward, Nanny was summoned back to Miss 
Grogan, who was seriously ill, and needed her sorely. Both 
her uncle and aunt missed her too — a good deal. Likewise 
at Christmas, when she had promised to return, but did 
not, and the rectory household had to make the best of the 
busy time without her. Mr. Trevena distributed his coals 
and blankets alone; and Arthur wandered aimlessly about 
the deserted park — for the Damerels were, still away. Both 
father and son openly lamented Nanny, who was “ so fun- 
ny, and “ so useful, to which the mother, shut helplessly 
in-doors, agreed with a sympathizing smile, hiding a silent 


KIXG ARTHUE. 


149 


pain that she could he no longer all they required, to either 
husband or son. But it soon passed — ^they were both well 
and strong and happy — and they loved her so much that as 
long as she sat, even with folded hands, at the fireside, they 
were sure to think it bright. 

After Christmas came a sudden event, omhious of 
changes — Miss Grogan died. Xanny was left — as she said 
in her sorrowful letter — “ alone in the world. But, as she 
also said, she meant to face the world, and trouble nobody. 
She had had a good education — thanks to her uncle, and 
her dear dead friend; and through all her grief there ran a 
thread of cheerful courage which touched everybody's heart. 

‘‘ Nanny is sure to do well,^^ said Mrs. Trevena, affec- 
tionately. “ Shall we have her here for awhile?’^ 

I wish we could have her here for always, answered 
the rector. 

But, to the surprise of both, Nanny refused their kind- 
ness — very gratefully, yet very firmly. She wished to begin 
to work at once. Nothing would induce her, she said, to 
eat the bread of idleness. She intended to go out as a gov- 
erness immediately. 

Impossible said her uncle, thinking of her as the last 
of the Trevenas. ‘‘ Impossible,'’^ wrote Arthur from Ox- 
ford, assigning no reason. And ‘‘ impossible added, 
gravely, Mrs. Trevena, who knew what governess-life is to 
a girl of eighteen. 

But fate — in the shape of Mr. Hardy — Arthur^s High 
Church friend, stepped in and settled the difficulty. He 
had a widowed sister come to live with him, who would be 
most thankful to get a daily governess for her only girl. 

If Miss Trevena would condescend,'’^ he said. “ At least 
so far as to come on a visit to the rectory, and try it for 
the summer.'’'’ Miss Trevena, being humble-minded, and 
strongly urged by both uncle and aunt, did condescend — 
and came. 

She looked so sweet, with her pale face and her deep 


150 


KING ARTHUR. 


mourning, that all the curate '’s family fell in love with her 
at once; and when Arthur came home for his Easter vaca- 
tion he found her quite settled: living at the rectory, and 
walking across the park every day to her work. It, and 
what she laughingly called her ‘^parish duties — as her 
aunt^s substitute — absorbed her so much that, as Arthur 
openly complained, he saw almost nothing of her, and was 
left out in the cold. At which his mother so compas- 
sionated him that she took every opportunity of sending 
him and Nanny for an evening walk together; rejoicing to* 
see them come back merry and happy. Their youthful 
happiness was the greatest bliss she knew. It helped her 
to bear her own feebleness and weariness; that shadow of 
fast' advancing old age — which had come all the faster since 
the blow of last year. 

Do what she would, she could not escape a perpetual fear 
of something happening — some effort on Lady Dame- 
reLs part to reclaim her son; or worse, some discovery 
which might make Arthur ^s birth not the safe mystery 
that it now was, but an open disgrace that might wound 
him to the quick — if a man ought to be wounded by any- 
thing in wLich he himself is entirely innocent. 

It was not difficult to divine, or at least to guess at. Lady 
DamereLs history. The beautiful public woman — half 
a pariah — as it was then thought, though now, thank 
heaven, many a public and professional woman leads as; 
domestic a life as any private matron who “ suckles fools 
and chronicles small-beer — married early to a poor gen- 
tleman; resenting and hating the restraints of home; heart- 
less, pleasure-loving, though not actually vicious; incapa- 
ble of love, but too selfish to degrade herself; a woman 
of genius,” possibly, but with an unwomanly heart; de- 
testing children, and the burden of them; disliking dull- 
ness and poverty, and ready always to act on impulse 
rather than judgment — it was easy to see how all had come 
about. 


KmG ARTHUR. 


151 


INot so easy to see how all would end, or how it ought to 
•end. Sometimes Susannah thought and thought, till she 
was half-dazed — she had come to the time when one must 
think, for one can do little else; and all one’s thoughts are 
for others — one’s own future is of no interest now; but her 
thoughts all came to nothing, for she could do nothing. 
Also Dr. Franklin, whose wife had burned the important 
letter, wrote advising her to do nothing till he came back 
to England next year. 

So she drifted on, nor noticed how other things and peo- 
ple were drifting on too, unto a future over which she had 
HO jurisdiction and no claim. 

That year spring came in early, deliciously; the tempting 
spring, when 

“ A young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,” 

and even old men — at any rate old women — turn half ten- 
derly to memories of what love was, or might have been — 
when the sight of a face, the touch of a hand, brought un- 
utterable, impossible bliss. Even the rector and his wife, 
.sitting in their lovely garden, with trees budding, primroses 
blooming, and thrushes singing — felt the nameless charm, 
and kept their silver wedding-day in tender content; Su- 
■sannah telling the ‘‘ children,” with a sweet faint blush on 
her old cheek, how she and papa had met when quite 
young, and had made a solemn vow among some gooseber- 
ry-bushes — eating gooseberries plentifully meantime— that 
they would certainly be married some day; which vow, 
after half a life-time, they kept. But she never noticed — 
nobody noticed — that at her innocent Tittle story Nanny 
turned very pale, and Arthur very red; and they scarcely 
apoke to one another for the rest of the day. 

It was a rather momentous day, for both inward home 
pleasure and outside news. Mr. Hardy appeared, in much 
■excitement. His grateful bishop had that day rewarded 
his long service by an unexpected living; and though now 


152 


kikg aethue. 


nigh upon forty^ the good curate was as happy as a boy* 
His vicarage was only a few miles otf, so he would not lose 
his friends at the rectory; though, Mrs. Trevena suggested, 
Nanny would lose her pupil. To which, in some confu- 
sion, Mr. Hardy answered that “ he was not sure.-’"’ 

Something constrained in his manner — and Nanny ^s toe 
— startled Mrs. Trevena into remembering how very often 
he had been at the rectory of late, and how continually he 
had walked home with Nanny across the park. She smiled 
to herself, not ill-pleased, for Mr. Hardy was an old friend 
and an excellent man, young and cheerful for his age* 
And Nanny, though so much his junior, was such a grave,, 
steady, reliable little thing— just the girl for a country 
clergyman^'s wife. She wondered she had never thought of 
this before — and, woman-like, was thinking it over with 
unmixed satisfaction, when a name caught her ear — the 
name which, now she had grown weak and nervous, always 
seemed to go through her like a knife. 

Have you seen Lady Damerel, Arthur? I met her 
driving, and she asked me how all was going on at the rec- 
tory, and if you and I would come and have an evening of 
music — quite quietly — they have brought no company down 
with them. I hear Sir Charles has broken down very much, 
and can not live long. Poor Lady Damerel 

Poor Lady Damerel, indeed!” echoed Mr. Trevena. 
‘‘ What a change for her! And they say she hates the heir- 
at-law — a needy man with seven children. What a pity 
Lady Damerel has none!” 

Mr. Hardy agreed, and again asked Arthur to come, as 
‘^her ladyship he always spoke with much awe of her 
ladyship — had said she especially wished for him, on ac- 
count of his music. 

‘‘IwonT go,” said Arthur decidedly. I don T care 

for Lady Damerel, though she does sing so well. And why 
doesnT she invite my mother? 1^11 not go to Tawdon Ab- 


KIIS'G ARTHUR. 


153 


bas, or anywhere, without my little mother/^ added he ca- 
ressingly. 

But your mother is not able to go, and I think you 
ought,^^ said the rector, who, like most men, was not in- 
different to the charming flattery of Lady Damerel. 

Arthur looked at his mother. 

Yes, go,^^ she answered — ^for a sudden desperation had 
seized her. Her boy should see with his own eyes, and 
judge with his own heart, between his natural unnatural 
mother, and the woman who had been to him everything 
that a mother ought to be. “ Go,^^ she said, knotting her 
trembling hands together, and hoping that no one noticed 
in her the slightest hesitation or pain. 

So it came about that during his Easter vacation Arthur 
went several times to Tawton Abbas, which, notwithstand- 
ing Sir Charles’s critical state, was full of company — Lady 
Damerel would not live without it; company among whom 
a young Oxford man who was handsome and ready-witted, 
could play and sing, act and dance, with equal facility and 
enjoyment, was most valuable — and valued. Arthur de- 
clared it was “ capital fun,” and took all his “ spofling ” 
with the most frank unconcern, coming home and joking 
about it to his mother and Nanny. Between the Arcadian 
life of mornings with Nanny, and the fashionable life of 
evenings, or rather nights — ^for he generally came back 
from Tawton Abbas when all the rectory had gone to bed 
— the young fellow seemed to be thoroughly enjoying him- 
self — till one day. ✓ 

Mr. Hardy after a long walk with Arthur, an interview 
with Mr. Trevena in the study, and another with Mrs. 
Trevena in the garden, formally made an offer of marriage 
to Miss Trevena; he did it in the properest, most orthodox 
way — indeed the good man’s wooing seemed like a bit out 
of Sir Charles Grandison, only that he proved to be not 
the man of men ” to his Miss Byron. 

Exceedingly agitated, more so than her aunt expected or 


154 


KING ARTHUR. 


could account for, the little girl/^ now advanced to the 
dignity of a w^oman, declared she had never given the 
slightest encouragement to her suitor, and would certainly 
not marry him. To all arguments from Mrs. Trevena, 
and a few very lame ones from Arthur — whom Mr. Hardy 
had made his confidant, and implored to use his brotherly 
influence — Hanny answered, pale as death, but with firm 
composure, that she had made up her mind not to marry 
anybody, and did not wish another word said on the subject. 

So, within a few hours, the thunder-storm came, broke,, 
and passed away; but it left a troubled atmosphere in the 
happy family. The rector could not get over his startled per- 
plexity at finding his little niece ar woman, and Mrs. Trevena 
knew enough of the cares of governess-ship to regret that 
Nanny should not escape from them into the blessed haven 
of domestic life. To her Mr. Hardy seemed very lovable; 
but evidently Nanny did not love him — and this wise fool- 
ish old woman, who still believed in love, had not another 
word to say. 

The storm had passed, but it left its traces behind. Nan- 
ny looked dull and sad, and Arthur, who for some reason 
or other did not “ go up " for a few days after term began, 
was not himself at all. 

‘‘ Is anything vexing you, my boy?"^ asked his mother 
one night when he came in from his usual evening enter- 
tainment at Tawton Abbas. He tried to put her off — scold- 
ing her for sitting up, and declaring it was because she 
knew how pretty she looked in her dressing-gown and her 
picturesque night-cap. But she saw something was amiss, 
and at last, taking his candle out of his hand, and making 
him sit down beside her, she found it out. 

‘‘ That Lady Damerel is an odd woman — a very odd 
woman, he said. ‘‘ What do you think she wants me ta 
do? To give up my quiet life at Oxford — I^m obliged to 
be a reading man, you know, or else I couldn^t make ends 
meet — and go in for a regular jolly life. And she^d give 


KUsTt aethur. 155 

me three hundred a year to do it with. Did you ever hear 
of such an offer — from a complete stranger too?^^ 
xVnd you answered?’^ 

I said I was much obliged, of course, but that I had no 
idea of being a pensioner on any oner’s bounty. I meant to 
stand on my own feet and earn my own living as soon as 
ever I could. 

‘‘AndsheP^ • 

Oh! she took it coolly enough — as she does ever3rthing; 
said I might please myself, but I had better think it over 
— only I must speak to no one about it. ‘ Except my 
mother, I said, and then she laughed — Lady Damerel has 
the most unpleasant laugh I ever heard. I can^t like her 
for all her kindness, and I won^t try. And so I won^t ac- 
cept anything from her — not a thing, added Arthur de- 
cidedly. ‘‘ Don^t you think I am right, mother 

‘‘Yes,^^ Susannah said beneath her breath. She was 
clutching her boy^s hand — caressing it and patting it, as 
she used to do when he was a baby. 

I can^t imagine why she should make such a fuss over 
me. It^s bothering — it^s humiliating. Can she do it out 
of compassion? or impertinent patronizing from a grand 
lady to — Mother,^' he added abruptly, ‘‘ do you think 
Lady Damerel knows who lam? I mean — does she know 
I have no right to the name I bear?^^ 

Everybody knows everything, my darling, said Su- 
sannah. “ It was the only right, safe, and honorable way. 
Everybody recognizes you as our dear adopted son, who 
will be a credit to our name, and make a name for himself 
besides — as a brave man can. 

“ And I will. But, mother, sometimes — it’s rather 
hard.” 

Susannah did not deny. She knew, to the very bottom 
of her soul, that it was hard. 

If I were a girl now, it wouldn’t matter. King Co- 
phetua may woo the beggar-maid; and if she is a queenly 


156 


KING AKTHUK. 


maid, and deserves him, it^s all right — nobody asks any 
questions. Poor old Hardy asked none about Nanny. She 
might never have had a father or a mother for all he cared. 
He loved her for herself. And he was sure of himself — 
that he could offer her a good income and an honest name, 
and creditable relations. Now, if I were to ask a girl to 
marry me — not that I^m going to, without one halfpenny 
to rub upon another — but if I were— g-nd her father put 
the plain question, ‘ Who areyou?^ what should I say? It^s 
funny, mother! but you must allow it^s a little hard.^’’ 

He laughed — not without bitterness — the bitterness that 
she had long foreseen must come, and wondered it had not 
come sooner. How could she help him? By telling him 
the truth, which might be crueler than ignorance? And 
besides, she herself did not absolutely know the truth — she 
only guessed at it. If she could have proved it, and there- 
by given her son name, fortune, every possible worldly 
prosperity, no matter though she robbed herself of all the 
joy of her life — still Susannah was the kind of woman to 
have done this. 

Not now. It might be that Arthur^s finding out the 
truth would take from him what he had, and give him 
nothing in return — leave him worse than nameless, worse 
than parentless. She looked up at him as he stood there — 
pale with a deeper emotion than she had ever yet seen in 
him, but young, strong, resolute, able to take his destiny 
in his own hands and carve out his own future — ^the best 
thing that can happen to any young man. 

Arthur,^ ^ she said, ‘Mt is hard — in some ways; but if 
I were you I would not be afraid. What does your favorite 
poet say? 

“ ‘ For man is man and master of his fate.’ 

So are you. And sometimes, she spoke bitterly, remem- 
bering old days, it is almost a blessing to have no rela- 
tions. 


Klis^G ARTHUR. 


157 


You are thinking of papa and his brother— Nanny'^s 
father — whom I hated. He was so cruel to Nanny. 

“ Yes, but we have forgotten that now. Nanny has not 
a bit of her father in her, except his name. She is upright, 
honest, independent — sure to do well in the world. And 
so will you.^^ 

Arthur^s eyes brightened. “ I will try.-’^ 

“And remember, my boy — every one has something to 
fight with — some evil fate to master. I mastered mine, 
and God gave me you. My dear, isn^t it worth a little to 
you that He also gave you your mother?^ ^ 

She held out her arms to him; and, big fellow as he was, 
the boy knelt down, laid his head on her lap, and wept like 
a child. 

That night Susannah made up her mind. Come what 
might, she would be resolved; she would find out the whole 
truth. Her son should not be lured from her by tempta- 
tions of the world, the flesh, and the devil. If he went ho 
should go open-eyed — choosing deliberately between her and • 
Lady Damerel; the simple, pure, righteous life in which 
he had been brought up, and the shallow worldly life they 
led at Tawton Abbas. 

So, next day, when the rector and Nanny had gone on 
their parish rounds together, and Arthur was a missing 
somewhere — he was often amissing now; being restless, 
unhappy, weary of his own company, and other people^ s,* 
too — Mrs. Trevena gathered up all her feeble strength, and 
set out to walk alone across the park to the great house. 
A short stroll, yet she had not done so much for many 
months. But the more fast-increasing she felt her weak- 
ness, the more she was determined to conquer it, and to 
work while it was day. 

It was a lovely morning; the sky bright with floating 
white clouds, the trees in the park already growing green. 
What a beautiful park it was! For nearly twenty years 
she had watched it, budding with spring, deepening into 


158 


PIING ARTHUK. 


the full verdure of summer; then melting to the glowing 
tints of autumn, and the scarcely less lovely whiteness of 
winter. How she had admired and enjoyed it! much more, 
probably, than its successive tenants had done. Infinitely 
more, alas! than its owner, poor Sir Charles! whom she 
saw coming toward her down the path in his Bath-chair. 
At first she thought she would avoid him; and then — no! 

Sir Charles was such a permanent invalid, such an un- 
considered nothing in the Damerel establishment, that Mrs. 
Trevena had rarely spoken to him. The chair, with its 
melancholy occupant and the tall footman lounging beside 
it, was passing her by, when she stopped it — half ashamed 
of herself to think that it was not for pity she did so. She 
addressed the old man courteously and kindly, but vainly 
she tried to get a coherent word from him. He was evi- 
dently paralyzed, for his speech was thick, and his face ex- 
pressionless. His hands, distorted with rheumatism, lay 
helpless in .his lap — yet he must have been a handsome 
man once. He. had sweet soft eyes, blue even yet — as blue 
as Arthur^s; and the clear-cut aquiline features of the 
JDamerels — a nose as big as mine,’^ she remembered 
Arthur had once said. Yes, withered and old as it was, 
the face was Arthur ^s face — the smile was Arthur ^s smile. 
Nature ^lad avenged herself upon the careless wife, the mi- 
thankful mother, with circumstantial evidence stronger 
than any words. Mrs. Trevena saw — and wondered she 
had never seen it before — that if Sir Charles Damerel and 
Arthur were set side by side, no one could doubt that the 
boy was his father^s son. 

Well, it was good to be assured — whatever might hap- 
pen; also with a sad pity that removed all conscience-stings 
as to any claim of the father on the son, she felt that this 
poor dead-alive wreck of humanity was long past being 
affected, for good or ill, by anything that did happen. To 
find a son would be to Sir Charles now neither joy nor 
pain. It was Lady Damerel only with whom Mrs. Trevena 


KING ARTHUK. 


159 


had to do battle; and would do it, putting herself and her 
feelings entirely aside — as she had had to do all her life; a 
curious contrast to that other woman, to whom self had 
been first object always. 

It was so still, to judge by the luxury of the morning- 
room, into which Mrs. Trevena was shown. All looked 
couleur derose, down to the very. hangings, which were so- 
placed as to throw a becoming glow on the faded face of the 
passee beauty who was afraid to be old. Susannah, catch- 
ing sight of herself in the numerous mirrors, and conscious 
of her trembhng limbs and beating heart, knew that she 
was old — no doubt about that now! But she grieved not,, 
feared not. All the more reason that she should do what 
she had to do, without delay. 

What was there to do? Nothing, it seemed, by the easy 
condescending smile with which the great lady received the 
rector^s Wife, and the pleasure she expressed at Mrs. Tre- 
vena^’s being able to walk so far, for a mere call. 

‘‘ It is not a mere call. I wanted to speak to you.'’^ 

Lady Damerel started an instant — and then resumed her 
polite smile of attention. 

‘‘ I am sure anything I can do for you, or for our excel- 
lent rector — 

“ Thank you — my husband and I want nothing. But 
you have offered to do something for my son, which he can 
not accept — which I do not wish him to accept.^'’ 

Why not?^^ 

‘‘ Because it is unseemly, and humiliating, for a young 
man to receive a large annual income from the bomity of — 
a stranger. 

Lady Damerel put her fan before her face, with an air 
as nonchalant as it was graceful; scarcely to hide emotion; 
there seemed none to hide. 

“ I hope that Arthur she saw Mrs. Trevena wince — 
“ I beg his pardon, Mr. Arthur, does not consider me quite 
a stranger. I like the young man; he is useful and pleas- 


160 


KING ARTHUK. 


ant to me — who have no children of my own. If I wish to 
help him why should you hesitate to accept my oifer?^^ 

“I do not hesitate/^ said Susannah; “ I absolutely re- 
fuse. While I live, my son shall never be indebted for a 
halfpenny to any one but his mother. 

I thought you told me you were not his own mother?^ ^ 
‘‘ I am not. Are you?^^ 

The question was so sudden — so direct — delivered with 
the intensity almost of a blow, struck as it were for dear 
life — that it fell upon Lady Damerel like blow. She sprung 
up in her chair. 

What right have you to say this — ^what proofs can you 
give? — Mrs. Trevena, how dare you — 

I dare do anything, if it is for my son^s sake, my boy, 
whom I took as a little baby — whom I have brought up — 
who has been all in all to me these twenty years— the best 
son that ever mother had. How dare you come between me 
and him? How can you, if, as I believe, you are the wom- 
an that deserted him, sold him, think to buy him back 
again with your miserable money? How dare you, I say?^^ 
As Susannah spoke, the passion of her voice startled even 
herself. But it met no response, either of fear or anger. 
Lady Damerel sat down again with a slight laugh. 
This is — an amusing fiction. But even if it were the 
truth — •’ ^ 

‘‘It is the truth, and you know it. And you know that 
Dr. Franklin knows it too. He will be coming: back to 
England shortly; he and I between us can prove everything 
— everything. And we will do it.^^ 

Lady Damerel smiled still; but in somewhat ghastly 
fashion: “ That would be unwise, Mrs. Trevena. You 
would lose your son, and I should not gain mine. One 
question — does he — the boy — know it too?^^ 

“ He does not. If he did, how he would despise you!^^ 
There was no attempt at disguise now. The two women 
fiat looking at one another — open enemies; tiger-like, each 


KmQ ARTHUR. 


101 


ready for the next spring. But both were very quiet; the 
one through fear, the other from speechless contempt. 
What would have happened next — 'Who can tell? — but for 
one of those coincidences which occur sometimes, in a way 
so natural that we call it providential. As Susannah did, 
to the end of her days. 

The door opened, and Arthur walked in: 

“ I hope I am punctual. Lady Damerel. You told me 
to come at eleven. What?^^ — seeing Mrs. Trevena — “ Oh, 
mother, how wrong of you to come alone! How tired you 
look! Sit down — sit down. 

And he stood beside her, with his hand laid caressingly 
on her shoulder, and his eyes full of anxiety. He had evi- 
dently no thought of anybody but his mother. Then, with 
the intuition of love, he saw that something was the mat- 
ter; and, with his usual frankness, faced it at once. 

“ I conclude. Lady Damerel, you know already what I 
came to tell you — that my mother would rather I did not 
accept your kindness. I agree with her. I wish to make 
my own way in the world, owing nothing to anybody^ — ex- 
cept my mother. ^ •’ 

Was it a hngering touch of human nature — maternal 
jealousy if not maternal tenderness — that made Lady 
DamereLs lip quiver as she looked at the handsome, grace- 
ful youth, and the little old woman over whom he leaned so 
affectionately. 

“ Your adopted mother, you mean. But decide as you 
choose. I hope you may not live to regret it."’^ 

Arthur flushed painfully: “ Since you know the truth 
about my birth. Lady Damerel, you will allow that I am 
right, not only in loving, but in obeying my mother. 

As Susannah clung to her boy'^s hand — the strong young 
hand which infolded hers (and here again Nature had 
asserted herself, for it was the very image of Lady Dame- 
reLs) — a sudden revulsion came over her. She felt com- 
( pelled by that sense of absolute right, quite irrespective of 


162 


KIKG ARTHUR. 


worldly widsom or personal feeling, that stern law — “ Fais 
ce que tu dois, advienne que pourra!^^ which strengthens 
some people — women especially — to do by impulse that 
which in cold blood they would perhaps have shrunk from 
doing. 

‘‘ Thank you, my own good boy!'’^ she said, with a sob. 

You know how I have loved you. But I am not your 
mother. Your real mother — the woman who bore you — is 
— that woman there ^ 

Arthur sprung up as if he he had been shot. She my 
mother! the mother who deserted me — -sold me? — oh no, 
mother darling! it canT be true — it isnT true!^^ 

“ It is true. She does not deny it. Look at her. 

Lady Damerel sat bolt upright in her chair — as white and 
as hard as marble. Arthur took one step toward her, and 
then drew back. 

“ Thank you, mother, for telling me. I am glad I know 
this. It was right I should be told.^^ 

“ I did not wish him to be told. No good can come of 
it, for his father never knew of his existence. I shall be 
glad to help him — with the half of my fortune if he wishes 
— after Sir Charleses death. But I never can acknowledge 
him publicly. It would ruin me. 

Lady Damerel spoke in a slow, cold, impersonal voice, 
never looking at her son. Nor did her son look at her. 
Bather he turned away his eyes, as if the mere sight of her 
were painful to him. At last he said, very quietly — and 
with a strange absence of emotion which made him for the 
moment almost resemble her — 

‘‘You need not fear: I shall never intrude upon you. I 
think it would almost kill me to have to do my duty to 
you^ as your son. Good-morning, Lady Damerel. Come,, 
mother, let us go home.^^ 

He placed Mrs. Trevena^s hand within his arm, and, with 
a distant, stately bow — a bow worthy of the heir of all the 
Damerels — ^he quitted without another word “ the woman 


KING AKTHUK. 


163 


that bore him — who had been do him merely that and 
nothing more. 

Lady Damerel sat, in her unshared splendor, childless 
and alone. Her sin had found her out. It was a just and 
a righteous retribution. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

For several days after Arthur discovered the truth about 
his parentage, he and his “ mother never spoke on the 
subject. He had whispered to her on their way home from 
Tawton Abbas — “ Please dond say a word to me — I cand 
bear it — and indeed she was utterly unable to say a word. 
The long strain being ended, a reaction came. Ere night- 
fall she was so ill that Arthur silently put off his departure 
for Oxford; and for many days neither he nor any one at 
the rectory thought of aught but her — the center of all 
their love and care. 

When she revived, she found that Arthur had told both 
the rector and Nanny what had happened — the bare fact 
— no more — ‘‘ to save mother the pain of telling it — but 
that he had requested of them total silence on the subject, 
since this discovery ‘ ‘ made no difference in anything. 

He repeated the same to herself in the few words that 
passed between them before he started for Oxford: she 
had thought it right to speak, and explain to him that even 
though he were the lawful heir of Tawton Abbas, unless 
Lady Damerel acknowledged this, it would be most difficult 
to prove his rights. 

‘‘It does not matter, mother, he said calmly. “I 
have thought it all over, and perhaps ‘ ^Tis better as it is ^ 
— as your friend Shakespeare says. I will make my own 
^ way in the world, and be indebted to nobody. Except you 
! • — except 3^ou!^'^ 

(f • He stooped and kissed the silver hair — whiter even within 


164 


KING AKTHUB. 


the last few weeks. Then, holding his head high, though 
he too looked older and graver — much, he bade her and 
them, all a cheerful good-bye, and went back to his work. 

f^rom that time Arthur’s letters came regularly, even 
more regularly than usual. But they were only to his 
mother — not to Nanny, who had once shared them. And 
they were wholly about his work — or his play, for he was 
equally good at both; as noted on the river as he was in the 
schools. But he never in the least alluded to what had 
occurred, or implied that he himself was in any way differ- 
ent from the Arthur Trevena who had been the Trevenas’ 
only son, dearly beloved, for the last twenty years. 

And Lady Lamerel made no sign. She still stayed on 
at Tawton Abbas'— which, it was clear, poor Sir Charles 
was never likely to leave again ; but she filled it with com- 
pany, as usual, and lived her usual lively Life there. Her 
sole appearance in the village was at church, where she 
sat, erect as ever, in her arm-chair; her cold, handsome, 
painted face, under the thin gauze veil which she always 
wore, contrasting strangely with the backgound of marble 
monuments — the old Damerels to whom her husband would 
soon be gathered. Sir Charles, it was rumored, would be 
the last of the name, though not of the race; for the next 
heir being by the female line, the baronetcy would become 
extinct. Though she was little known, and less liked, one 
or two of the more thoughtful of the congregation, looking 
at her, and recognizing what a downcome must follow her 
husband’s death, sometimes said — ‘‘ Poor Lady Damerel!” 

Not Mrs. Trevena. Under all her gentleness Susannah 
could, if need required, be as hard as stone, and as silent. 
She never, in or out of the house, except upon compulsion, 
mentioned the name of Lady Damerel. She rose up from 
her illness, and went about her duties as heretofore — not 
even allowing Nanny to share them; Nanny, who still 
lived at the rectory, nominally, but was rarely at home, 
having obtained teaching in a neighboring town. She was 


KIKG ARTHUR. 


165 


cheerfully earning her honest bread, and evidently making 
up her mind to do this all her days, as if there had been no 
such person as Mr. Hardy in existence. She worked hard, 
poor little thing! — as her aunt had done before her; and 
her aunt appreciated this, as well as the tenderness which 
made Nanny, whenever she was at home, as good as any 
daughter. 

But Susannah did not want a daughter. All her heart 
was bound up in her son; and it was a great pang to her, 
even though she acknowledged it might be “ all for the 
best — when Arthur announced his intention of spending 
the long vacation with a reading party in Wales. He 
could afford it, having earned some extra money by acci- 
dental^‘‘ coaching. It was good for his health, his mother 
argued to herself; and would be more cheerful to him than 
home — which he must find rather dull now he was a grown- 
up young man. So she said to Nanny, who listened and 
said nothing; Nanny never did speak much at any time. 

Therefore it befell that for a whole year Arthur appeared 
at the rectory only on very short visits; between terms, or 
after having passed successfully all his examinations. He 
would never ‘‘ set the Thames on fire — as he one day 
bade Nanny impress upon his mother; but he had no fears 
of failing in his university career. Indeed he hoped to get 
through it in such a way as to secure afterward his daily 
bread, at least, probably as an Oxford ‘‘ coach. Of music, 
or the musical career, he now never spoke a word. 

Indeed, in many ways the boy was much changed — a boy 
no longer, but a man. In one thing, however, there was 
no change, but rather a growth — his tender devotion to 
his mother. Ay, even though life, which with him was 
pouring on toward flood-tide, with her was at its quiet ebb. 
7'hough she could not share in his pleasures, could never be 
to him the sympathetic companion that young and active 
mothers often are to their boys — and a lovely sight it is! — 
^ftill, to see Arthur with his little old mother^ as carefid as 


166 


KING AKTHUR. 


a girl, as devoted as a lover, as tender as a son — was also a 
sight never to be forgotten. 

Lady Damerel never saw it — nor they her. Once, when 
walking in the park, they came across Sir Charleses 
wheeled chair; Arthur, taking off his hat, stood aside to let 
it pass, with its melancholy occupant, behind whom walked 
the valet, or keeper, always his sole companion. 

‘‘ It is no use speaking to Sir Charles; he doesn’t know 
anybody now,” said the servant carelessly; and they walked 
on. But, in the blank white face of the old man, and the 
strongly marked profile of the young one, Susannah saw 
again that unmistakable likeness — fate’s confirmatory evi- 
dence against the cruel bar-sinister which the world would 
be sure to impute to a deserted child. And though to 
judge a man by this, to lay to his charge his parents’ sin, is 
wholly unjust and unchristian; still, since the world is 
neither christianized nor just, it will be always so. 

She watched her boy as he walked on beside her, with a 
grave fixed look on his face, but showing no other emotion. 

“ Sir Charles will not live long,” she said, “ and nobody 
could wish it. ” 

No; but I am glad to remember he was always kind to 
me.” 

This was all. Intercourse between Tawton Abbas and 
the rectory had now stopped entirely. The rector wished it 
to be so. Austin Trevena did not often take the law into 
his own hands. His own instincts had been so pure, and 
his life so blameless, that he did not understand sinners, 
and was apt to be only too lenient to them. But in this 
case he was very firm. 

“ The church-door is open to any one,” he said, ‘‘ and I 
can not refuse her the sacrament, for I know nothing 
against her moral character — but there it ends. I hope, 
Susannah, that Lady Damerel will never darken our door^ 
again. ” 

She did not. For a whole year no trouble entered those 


KIl^'G ARTHUE. 


167 


quiet doors; where old age was now beginning to claim its 
Sabbath of peace, which ought to be so welcome and so 
blessed. For what energetic action is to youth, so is mere 
rest to declining years. After sixty — sometimes, alas! be- 
fore then — we learn to say, “ There is no joy but calm;'"’ — 
and to be thankful for it if we get it. 

So, when month after month slid by, and nothing hap- 
pened, nothing broke the monotony of the peaceful house, 
hold, except Arthur^s flying visits, and his constant, com- 
forting letters — Susannah’s worn face gradually recovered 
its look of sweet content, justifying her boy in telling her, 
as he did sometimes, that she was “ the prettiest old lady 
that ever was seen.” Or would be, one clay— for he refused 
to allow that she was old ” yet; and often proposed the 
most unheard-of feats for her in the way of picnics, and 
other expeditions with himself and Nanny. At which she 
smilingly shook her head, and sent “ the children ” away 
by themselves. 

Arthur, come home now for the long vacation, seemed 
again his merry boyish self. He had got triumphantly 
through his “schools” — and seemed determined to enjoy 
himself. He went singing about the house as when he was 
ten years old; though now just past one-and-twenty; he 
walked, he fished, he bicycled; he “tramped” the parish 
for the rector, and visited the old women with Nanny, who 
was also at home for her holidays. 

Nanny had changed very little within the last few years. 
She was still the same plain little thing, except for her 
great dark eyes, and her exceedingly sweet -toned voice — a 
pleasant voice is better to live with than even a pretty face. 
But she had an atmosphere of prettiness about her too — ex- 
ceeding neatness of dress, and grace of movement; so that, 
though not a beauty, she could never be called decidedly 
ugly. Some day, perhaps, some other man — ^probably, her 
aunt thought, an elderly man — might find in her the same 
nameless charm that Mr. Hardy had done. Poor Mr. 


168 


KING ARTHUK. 


Hardy! He still came to the rectory sometimes, but he 
never said a word more to Miss Trevena. Once, when talk- 
ing to Arthur about the future of “ poor little Nanny, his 
mother suggested that perhaps she might be an old maid 
after all. At which the boy laughed — which Susannah 
thought rather unbrotherly and unkind — but he made her 
no answer whatever. 

It was August, and he had been two weeks at home; 
going about everywhere^ except in the direction of Tawton 
Abbas. It was emptied of guests, at last, they heard; for 
Sir Charles was slowly dying. Lady Hamerel seldom ap- 
peared at church now; but one day a stranger gentleman 
was seen there, in the Damerel pew. He was stout, pomp- 
ous, and common-looking. Eeport said he was the heir, 
come to pay a duty visit, and investigate the state of affahs; 
which made the village talk him over rather curiously, and 
say again — “ Poor Lady Damerel! 

But nobody ever said Poor Mrs. Trevena !^^ There was 
little need. Though feeble and elderly now, she looked so 
content and at rest — so proud even, when walking into 
church on her tall son^s arm — that no one would ever have 
thought of pitying her. Nor did she pity herself. Her life’s 
storms seemed to have sunk into peace. Her boy knew 
everything about himself; and yet was satisfied to be still 
her boy. Accounts reached her on all sides of his well- 
doing at Oxford; where, his university curriculum being 
gone through, a fellowship, and possibly a tutorship, were 
almost sure to follow: one of the many proofs that a boy 
with a fair amount of brains, and the determination to use 
them, can make his way in the world without any extrane- 
ous help, either of friends or fortune — if he so choose. 
‘‘ Where there’s a will there’s a way,” Arthur used to say, 
as a boy; and as a man he bade fair to carry out his creed. 

His mother thought of him now with that restful ness of 
perfect trust, not so much in his fortunes as in himself — a 
safer stronghold — which, God help them! not all mothers 


KmG ARTHUR. 


169 


have, or deserve to have. But He had given her that 
blessing, and she was thankful. No doubt, Arthur was 
not quite as perfect as she thought him; but he was a very 
good fellow, and a favorite with everybody — including all 
the young ladies of the neighborhood. For he and Nanny 
together had gradually brought young life about the rec- 
tory; where there were occasionally garden-parties, lawn- 
tennis meetings, and such-like mild country amusements. 
Susannah shared them, and was amused by them; some- 
times speculating upon how much her boy was admired, 
and wondering who would fall in love with him; and whom, 
in some far future day, he would fall in love with himself, 
and marry. She would be very fond of his wife, she 
thought; and oh! it would be delightful to see his children. 

‘‘Only fancy! me a grandmother!^^ she thought, and 
laughed to herself at the oddness of the idea. 

She was sitting, after one of these parties, in the warm 
August darkness, lit with stars, and fragrant with deli- 
cious scents. It was about nine o^clock; Arthur and Nanny 
had walked a little way down the road with their friends, 
and the rector was in his study. Susannah sat in the sum- 
mer-house, all alone. But she did not mind solitude; she 
rather enjoyed it. She liked to sit and think — as now; for 
the scent of clematis and jasmine always brought back the 
August nights of her youth — when Austin came back from 
Oxford, and they used to walk in his father '’s garden to- 
gether for hours. Then, life was all before them; now it 
was behind. What matter? It had not been all she ex- 
pected; a ship or two had gone down, but much had been 
saved — enough to make the old scents always sweet to her, 
and the old days dear. 

She was looking back upon them, dreamily; and forward, 
into the days to come — not so many now! when she heard 
steps upon the gravel, and there passed two figures— a man 
and a girl. She • thought at first it was her house-maid, 
who she knew had a “ lad — for the man's arm was round 


170 


KING AKTHUK. 


the girFs waist, and she was sobbing on his shoulder; which 
kept Mrs. Trevena from speaking to them. Shortly they 
passed again, and then, to her utter bewilderment, she saw 
it was Arthur and Nanny- — whom she still sometimes called 
— “the children. 

She was so accustomed to think of them as such, that at 
first her only feeling was a slight vexation that Nanny 
should be “ bothering Arthur with her troubles. She 
had heard him say, “ Don’t cry, poor little Nanny — please 
don’t.” But Nanny was a little too old to be soothed and 
caressed like a baby, and should be careful as to how such 
caresses looked outside — Arthur not being her real brother. 
As to anything else, Mrs. Trevena dismissed the idea as 
simply ridiculous. Her Arthur — such a fine young fellow, 
everybody’s favorite; and Nanny — such an ordinary creat- 
ure— whom he had played with, petted, tyrannized over all 
liis life— for them to be anything but brother and sister was 
perfect nonsense! She would not speak to Arthur, or put 
such a notion into his head; but she would speak to 
Nanny, who was a sensible girl, and would understand. 

However, when she went in-doors, she found Nanny had 
gone to bed; “ very tired,” Arthur explained; and that he 
himself, after supper and prayers, was evidently waiting for 
a talk with his mother — as he often did of Saturday nights 
when the rector was busy over his sermon. 

“ I have rather a serious word or two to say to you, 
mother darling,” he whispered, as he took her hand and 
sat down beside her. 

“ Not very serious,” smiled she — for his eyes were shin- 
ing and his manner cheerful and happy, though a trifie 
nervous. At which she hardly wondered, when he came 
out suddenly with a startling idea. 

“ Mother, I want to leave you for a httle. I am think- 
ing of gcnng to Switzerland — to Andermatt.” 

“ To Andermatt? Why? Oh, my boy, what good would 
it do?” 


•KIKa ARTHUK. 


171 


Arthur soothed her momentary distress — ^he had unlimited 
power of soothing his mother; and then told her that in 
consequence of a letter from his godfather, ‘‘ and for other 
reasons,^’ he had lately thought it advisable to tell his whole 
history to a friend he had, the son of an eminent Lon- 
don barrister — who had taken counsels opinion. This was, 
that if he ever meant to claim the estate and the baronetcy, 
he ought immediately to take steps to obtain what is called 
“ perpetuation of testimony, that is, the affidavits of all 
those witnesses who could prove his birth and his identity; 
which evidence could be laid up, and would be sufficient, in 
case of the death of any of them before the time came for 
the heir to assert his rights. 

‘‘ I will never do this in Sir Charleses life-time; but after- 
ward, I may, if I can afford the money. One^s birthright 
is one’s birthright, and worth fighting for. No man could 
be expected not to fight, if he has the right on his side, 
both for his own sake and those belonging to him. ” 

“ But that is only papa and me; and we would' rather 
keep you as our son than have you |he heir of all the Lame- 
rels. ” 

No sooner had she said this than she felt how selfish it 
was, and how natural, how right, that Arthur should feel 
as he did, and should have done what he had done — as any 
young man would have done — though it hurt her a little 
that he had done it without consulting her. But he was so 
tender, so thoughtful, and withal so prudent, that the feel- 
ing soon passed. If her son did what was right and wise, 
it mattered little whether he did it with her or without 
her. 

So they went into the details of his proposed journey with 
their usual mutual confidence. He had saved enough to 
defray all expenses, he thought, if he traveled very econom- 
ically; and when she offered him money, he refused it. He 
preferred being “ on his own hook.” 

‘‘You see, I am not doing badly, mother, for a fellow of 


172 


kikg akthue.- 


twenty-one. It^s odd — but I am really twelity-one now. 1 
could be sued for my own debts — or for breach of promise, 
if I had asked any one to marry me.’’^ 

He said this with a laugh and a blush — ^but also with an 
anxious look out of the corners of his bright honest eyes. 

' His mother laughed too, in unsuspicious content. 

1 “ All in good time, my dear. I hope you will marry 

some day, when you find anybody you care for — which you 
have not found yet, you know.^^ 

Arthur looked grave and answered, very gently, I am 
not sure. 

A sudden wild apprehension fiitted across the mother^ s 
mind. Could her boy have fallen in love? The girls of 
the neighborhood — she counted them over swift as thought. 
Hot one seemed possible, probable, or desirable. 
“ Arthur?^ ^ she cried, in an almost agonized question. 

Arthur hung his head a little. “ Yes, mother, it^s quite 
true. I did really ask her — this evening. I think I must 
have loved her all my life — though I didnT find it out till 
Mr. Hardy wanted her, ^d couldnT get her. 

“ Hanny! Oh, Arthur, it isn^t surely Hanny! Impossi- 
ble!^^ . 

“ Why impossible?^’ said Arthur, drawing h^elf,up. 

‘‘ Such a — ” such a plain little thing, ” the mother was 
going to say, but stopped herself — a different kind of 
person from you. And she has been your cousin — almost 
your sister — ever since you .were children together.” 

‘‘ But she is not my cousin, and not my sister, and I 
don’t want her as either. I want her for my wife.” 

The young man — he was a man now — spoke firmly the 
strange new word. It went through his mother like a 
shaft of steel — ^yet she had tho sense not to show it. 

‘‘You asked Hanny, you say, this evening? And she 
answered — ” 

“ She would not give me any answer at all till I had told 
you — and her uncle. But I think, indeed I know — ” And 


Kim ARTHtTR. 


173 


Arthur lifted his head prouder than ever — with the honest 
pride of a young man who knows that the girl he loves loves 
him. “She is such a good girl/ ^ he added. “Nobody 
in the world could ever say a word against my little 
Nanny. 

“ My little Nanny! the sense of possession — ^the pas- 
sionate protection of his own against all the world — it 
touched the mother in spite of herself. So many lovers are 
such cowards — so ardent to seize, so feeble to defend. Here 
was the true chivalric lover, who, it was clear, meant to 
hold to his “ little Nanny through thick and thin. 

What could Susannah say? It was the very kind of love 
she most admired — the ideal of faithful tenderness which 
she herself had taught him; though it broke her heart she 
could not but respect it. And yet — and yet — 

Arthur saw her evident distress, but did not attempt to 
console her. There is a time — God forgive them, poor 
lambs! — when all young people think of themselves only. 
Happy for them if their elders have self-control enough to 
recognize this — to remember the time when they also went 
through the same phase of passionate egotism — or dual 
egotism. It can not last long. If lovers are proverbiallv 
selfish, except to the object beloved, husbands and wives, 
fathers and mothers, must inevitably soon learn that self- 
abnegation which, is the very soul of marriage and parent- 
hood, which often makes even the most thoughtless boy or 
girl into a noble man and woman. 

There is much to be said for and against what the world- 
ly-minded call “ calf-love.-’^ It may not always endure — 
perhaps best not — for a man^s last love is sometimes deeper 
than his first. But sometimes it does endure; and then it 
is the strongest thing in life; I have known people who 
loved one another in their teensy and loved on for sixty 
years. 

By a sort of inspiration, Susannah ^s mind leaped at tnis 
truth, or at least this possibility; and it strengthened her to 


174 


KIKO AUTHUR. 


bear what to no mother can be a joy, and may be a sharp 
pang — the discovery that «he has ceased to be her Childs’s 
first object — that another, perhaps a total stranger, has 
suddenly become far closer, far dearer, far more important 
than she. 

Restraining a sob, and compelling herself into something 
like a smile, Mrs. Trevena held out both her hands to her 
boy. He seized them, and, flinging himself on his knees 
before her, put both his arms round her waist and kissed 
her again and again. 

“ My good mother — my kind mother was all he could 
say, almost with a sob. 

She stroked his hair, and patted his shoulder. 

“ You silly boy — such a mere boy still! And she such a 
baby — little Nanny, whom you have known all your life.^’ 

“ It is because I have known her all my life — ^because I 
am quite sure of her, that I love her so. She would never 
despise me. She is willing to marry a man without a name 
— and therefore for her sake I will try to get one. Til do 
nothing just yet — as I told you; I will stand on my own feet 
and make myself respected as I am. But, by and by, I 
will move heaven and earth to obtain my own. For 
Nanny ^s sake — for Nanny’s sake! And, if I fail, I shall 
still have her — and you.” 

‘‘ Her ” first — “ you ” afterward. Well! it was right — 
it was natural; the law of nature and of God. Arthur was 
unconscious of having said it — nor did his mother betray 
that she had heard it. It was the final love-sacrifice which 
all mothers must make: if the smoke of it ascends to 
heaven, God accepts it, and that is enough. 

You are not vexed — not angry with me,- mother dar- 
ling?” said Arthur, anxiously. 

“ How could I be? You are a couple of little geese — 
that is all. And you will probably have to wait for years 
and years.” 

‘‘ Never mind,” laughed Arthur, now quite happy— 


KIKG ARTHUK. 


175 


actually radiant in his happiness — so handsome, so graceful, 
that more than ever it was an actual amazement to her 
how he, her King Arthur, the cynosure of all eyes — the 
sort of preux chevalier whom most girls fall in love with — 
he, who might have chosen anybody, should have gone and 
chosen Nanny — poor little Nanny! 

‘‘You will speak to her?^^ pleaded he. “ She is gone to 
bed, but she is not asleep, I am sure. You will not wait 
till morning — you^ll go now. mother?^^ 

“ Certainly. And Mrs. Trevena rose, steadying her- 
self by the back of her chair — and feeling blindly for the 
door handle. Then she turned: “ I think, dear, we'll not 
tell papa of this just yet — not till after Sunday." 

When they did tell him Mr. Trevena was, as his ‘wife 
had foreboded, a httle vexed. He took the masculine and 
worldly view of the subject, and did not like being dis- 
turbed out of the even tenor of his way by any such youth- 
ful nonsense. 

“ Foolish children! — they have not a halfpenny between 
them, " said he. “And the idea that at their age they 
should know their own minds — it's ridiculous!" 

“We did," said Susannah, softly. And she may surely 
be forgiven if, looking at the Austin Trevena of to-day, 
she remembered the Austin Trevena of forty years ago, 
and thought perhaps it might have been better for both 
had he too been “ young and foohsh " — if they had trusted 
themselves and Providence; married as early as prudence 
would allow, spent the flower of their days together, not 
apart; fought through their cares and enjoyed their bless- 
ings; and lived to “ see their children's children and peace 
upon Israel. " Such might be the lot of Arthur and Nanny 
—and, remembering her own lot, she was glad of it. 

“ Husband," she said, and put her arm on his shoulder 
with the love that had never failed him all his life — ^never 
would fail him till death — “ we did not make this marriage 
—it made itself, or God made it — who knows? Don't you 


176 


KIKG ARTHUE. 


think we had better leave things alone, and let the young 
people settle their own affairs?’^ 

A sentiment which coincided so much with the rector^s 
dreamy, lazy ways that possibly he was glad in his heart to 
leave things alone. He told his niece “ she could do as she 
liked, and Arthur, too; went back to his books and forgot 
all about it. In his gentle undemonstrative way Austin 
was the tenderest of husbands — the kindest of men; but 
with him, as was not imnatural, the days of romance "were 
all over and done. 

Were they with Susannah? are they ever with any real 
woman who recognizes that love is the heart of life; and, 
for either man or woman, its utmost salvation, its most 
perfect joy? 

Arthur had only a few days at home before he started 
for Andermatt with his friend, who was also a lawyer, and 
capable of transacting the necessary legal business. The 
boy arranged all with the cleverness, shrewdness, and firm- 
ness of a man. Between whiles he went about, also like a 
man, with the girl he had chosen; beamingly happy, and 
not a bit shy or ashamed. His mother watched him with 
a full heart — she also ‘‘ had been in Arcadia. 

But it was a sore heart, too. She had always liked 
Hanny, and been very kind to her; but kindness and liking 
are not necessarily love. People of wide sympathies and 
active benevolence are often misconceived, and supposed to 
love everybody. They do not. . They feel kindly to every- 
body, but they only love one or two people in the whole 
course of their fives. It is like a man putting all his 
money in one bank; if the bank^breaks — and it does break 
sometimes — God help him! He may carry on business 
very successfully outside, but at heart he is bankrupt all 
his days. 

One of these rare loves — strong as rare — ^in Mrs. Tre- 
vena’s fife, had been the maternal passion for her adopted 
son. His going to school and college had made him less a 


KING ARTHUE. 


177 


part of her daily existence than if he had been a girl; but 
his falling in love was a greater blow to her than any 
daughter’s would have been. In spite of the cruel jocu- 
larities against mothers-in-law, many a woman inclines 
tenderly to the man her daughter marries; often loving 
him like her own son. For her daughter’s her daughter 
all her life ” — and she gains a son besides. But when her 
son marries she loses him in degree, and sometimes does 
not gain a daughter. 

Watching Nanny, and wondering more and more how 
Arthur ever came to choose her— yet plain little women 
have ruled paramount, and for life, in the hearts of clever 
and handsome men — Susannah sometimes felt as if she 
could never love the girl; and then again as if she must 
love her, because Arthur did. It was a desperate struggle 
— a small tragedy in a tea-pot ” — but none the less a 
tragedy; and all the more pathetic that it went on in the 
silent heart of an old woman, in whom age, which deadens 
most things, had never yet deadened the power of loving 
and of suffering. 

But it could not last — it ought not to last. Best to bury 
it — and let all the sweet charities of life grow up round it, 
like grass and flowers round a stone. 

The household at the rectory soon found out the truth of 
things; so did the village, and came with its innocent con- 
gratulations to Mr. Arthur and Miss Nanny. Mr. Hardy 
came, too — sad, but resigned — saying with comical pathos, 
‘‘It’s not lost that a friend gets.” By and by all the 
neighborhood brought good wishes, too, except Tawton 
Abbas, where Sir Charles still lay in that lingering death 
in life which might last for months or years. 

Susannah herself expected little result from Arthur’s 
journey to Andermatt; but she thought it right he should 
go; and his godfather, who expected to be in England 
shortly, wrote, insisting on the same. Nanny said nothing 
—all she cared for was Arthur himself. Her absorbing 


178 


KING ARTHUK. 


and exclusive devotion to him, which had evidently existed 
hopeless for years, touched his mother’s heart more than 
anything else; and made a little easier that salutary but 
rather melancholy performance of playing second fiddle,” 
which all parents must learn, soon or late. It is the law of 
nature — and therefore the law of God. 

Mr. Trevena was the only person in the household who 
dwelt much on the worldly phase of the matter; thought it 
possible that Arthur might one day be Sir Arthur Damerel, 
and suggested that the last of the Trevenas would prove a 
not unsuitable Lady Damerel. 

‘‘And then, my dear, you and I must make up our 
minds to spend our old age together. The common lot! 
When the young birds are fiown we must snuggle down in 
the empty nest. I dare say we shall bear it. ” 

“ Oh, yes — we shall bear it,” smiled Susannah, as she 
kissed him tenderly — the one man she had loved all her 
life through. She knew all his weaknesses — all his faults, 
as he knew hers; still he was himself, and she was herself 
— nothing could divide them but death. There is a sen- 
tence^ — if to quote it be not profane — and yet how can it be 
so, to those who try in all things to imitate the Divine Mas- 
ter? “ Having loved his own, he loved them unto the 
end.” And in all true loves we do love — we can not choose 
but love — unto the end. 

Arthur wrote from Andermatt that he had “ found all 
he hoped for, and done all he wanted to do.” Nothing 
more. Explanations could wait. He and his companion 
meant to “ have their fiing,” for a week or two; it might 
be many years before he could afford more foreign travel- 
ing, and then he would come home. Home to the bright- 
est and best bit of a young man’s life, or a girl’s either — 
when their lot is all settled, their love openly acknowledged ; 
and they start, a betrothed pair, with, everybody’s good 
wishes, to begin the journey of life together. 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Trevena to Nanny, as they sat at 


KIKG ARTHITR. 


179 


their sewing, though the younger did it chiefly now, for Su- 
sannah eyes were fast failing her — My dear, what day 
is Arthur coming home?^^ It was a new thing, a rather 
sore thing, for the mother to have to ask anybody else 
“ when Arthur was coming home?-’^ but the reward, to a 
generous heart, was Nanny's bright up-loolc, and happy 
blush. 

I think, aunt, he will be here the day after to-morrow. 
But I told him he was not to come till he had done all he 
wanted to do, and seen everything he wanted to see." 

This proud maidenly possession of a man, not to queen it 
over him in selfish vanity, but to use her influence nobly, 
for his good and hers — it was a pretty thing to see; and it 
comforted the mother's heart. She knew well that a man's 
whole future often depends upon the sort of girl he falls in 
love with in his first youth. 

‘‘ I agree with you, my dear; still, if you write again, 
tell him I think he should come home at once. His god- 
father is in England, and will be here to-day. You re- 
member Doctor Franklin?" 

“ Oh, yes." There was nothing connected with Arthur 
which Nanny did not remember. Hers was the most en- 
tire, absorbing devotion, reasonable, hot blind devotion, 
that any girl could give; and day by day it was reconciling 
Arthur's mother to things as they were — even though they 
were wholly contrary to what she had expected or desired. 
She could not withstand the pathetic appeal of Nanny's 
dark eyes — like that of Helena to the countess, in “ All's 
Well that Ends Well." 

“ Let not your hate encounter with my love 
For loving where you do.” 

Also, another thing reconciled her — a thing hard to learn, 
but when learned, bringing with it a solemn peace. Dearly 
as she loved her own, she felt she could take care of them 
no more. As she watched Nanny flitting about like a little 


180 


KIKO AETHUR. 


brown bird, carrying out her orders, suggesting things sh6 
had forgotten, and doing everything she was unable to do, 
the wife and mother learned to say to herself, ‘‘ So be it!^^ 

When Dr. Franklin arrived she made Nanny explain to 
him the position of Arthur ^s business affairs; which the 
girl did so cl«?arly and well that the old man — he was quite 
an old man now — patted her on the shoulder approvingly. 

“ My godson has fallen on his feet, whether he ever is 
Sir Arthur or not. When you write, tell him I say so. . 

But fortunately there was no need of writing. Next day 
Arthur came home, and Dr. Franklin^ s evidence, conclu- 
sive as to identity, and including Lady DamereFs own ad- 
mission that the child was hers and her husband’s, was for- 
mally taken. 

“‘Depend upon it, if she finds out I’m here, she’ll shake 
in her shoes,” said the Kentuckian, laughing his silent 
laugh. And truly, when the same evening, the Tawton 
Abbas carriage passed him, as he stood leaning on the rec- 
tory gate, the face that looked out from it turned deadly 
pale. But Lady Damerel made no sign of recognition. On 
both sides there seemed an armed truce, to last as long as 
fate would' permit — which could not be very long after all. 

Nor was it. Two days after, when the young people, 
shy but proud, and mispeakably happy, had slipped away 
for their daily walk together, leaving Dr. Franklin and 
Mrs. Trevena sitting in the garden, and the rector in his 
study — there came a message from Tawton Abbas. The 
church-bell suddenly began to toll, as it had tolled for cen- 
turies on the death of any Damerel — once every minute for 
every year of age. They counted seventy-three strokes. It 
was Sir Charles Damerel then who had gone to his rest. 

All met on the doorsteps of the rectory, listening. Arthur 
removed his hat, and stood bareheaded, with a grave, com- 
posed air, tiirthe bell ceased— then, taking Nanny’s hand, 
led the Way in-doors. They all followed, for they knew the 
crisis was come. 


KING AETHUR. 


181 


A long consultation followed. ‘‘ Le roi est mort; vive le 
roi !” There could be no doubt that the heir-presumptive 
would immediately claim his rights, and that the heir-ap- 
parent must claim his, or else forever hold his peace. 

There were two ways of procedure: one was that, sup- 
posing the remote cousin appeared at the funeral, having 
already taken possession, to bring an action of ejectment 
against him in behalf of the direct heir; the second, involv- 
ing greater difficulties, was, that Arthur should take pos- 
session of Tawton Abbas, and leave his opponent to bring 
the action of ejectment. But this could not be done with- 
out the consent and assistance of Lady Damerel, which 
would be equivalent to a public acknowledgment of her son. 

It was decided to adopt the former course. “ If I have 
to fight — fight I will,^^ said Arthur, with a quiet resolution 
that surprised everybody. ‘‘ But I will not do it untender- 
ly. She shall not be troubled in any way till after the 
funeral. 

This was fixed for an earlier day than the village expect- 
ed. Usually the Damerels had the special honor of re- 
maining above ground for a week or more, before being 
left to sleep with their fathers under Tawton Church. That 
poor Sir Charles should be buried on the third day, looked 
far too unceremonious — almost as if his widow were glad to 
get rid of him. And when it was noised abroad that the 
heir was “ somewhere on the continent,^ ^ taking one of his 
numerous sons to school in Germany, and that consequent- 
ly Lady Damerel would be the only chief mourner, every- 
body was still more astonished. 

Except Dr. Franklin. “ That woman '’s a shrewd one,^^ 
he said. “ She knows on which side her bread^s buttered. 
I shouldnT wonder — ” 

And there he stopped. Nobody talked very much at the 
rectory, except on commonplace, extraneous subjects dur- 
ing those three anxious days. 

The funeral day was a cheerless one, such as comes some- 


182 


KIKG AETHUR. 


time in September; a settled downpour, when it appears as 
if the weather has broken, and the summer is gone. 
Nevertheless half the neighborhood assembled in the chilly 
church — so damp and cold that Nanny entreated her aunt 
not to attempt to go; and carriage after carriage rolled past 
the rectory gate on its way to pay respect to the last of the 
Damerels. It was to be a very fine funeral, eveiybody 
agreed; Lady Damerel having spared no expense to make 
her sorrow for her husband as public as possible. 

The long procession had been already seen wending along 
the park, and the rector was putting on his canonicals, 
when Arthur came into the study, dressed in complete 
mourning. 

‘‘ My boy?^' said Mrs. Trevena questioningly. She only 
questioned now— she never controlled: he had a right to 
judge and act for himself; and she knew he would do both 
rightly. 

He stooped and kissed her tenderly. ‘‘ You do not ob- 
ject? I am going to my father’s funeral.” It was the first 
time he had ever used the word: he said it now with a 
fingering pathos, as we speak of something wholly lost — 
the loss of which teaches us what it might have been. I 
ought to go, I think. He was a good man. There is one 
thing I shall find it hard to forgive; that I was prevented 
— she prevented me — from ever knowing my father.” 

“But that gained you a mother, young fellow!” said 
Dr. Franklin sharply. “ You’ve won much more than 
you lost. ” 

“ I know it,” said Arthur earnestly. “ And if all fails, 
I shall come home here, and then go to Oxford and earn 
my honest bread, with Nanny beside me. ” It was Nanny’s 
hand he took — Nanny’s eyes he looked into when he spoke. 
Then, as wich a sudden though, he added — “ But I shall 
be my mother’s son all my days. ” 

Again he kissed her, and his mother kissed him back 


KIiq'G AETHPR. 


183 


again; nor hindered him^ nor grieved him, by a single look 
or word. 

They all went to the church together, for Mrs. Trevena 
refused to be left behind. Arth.ur'did not enter the rectory 
pew with the rest, but stood al the entrance, waiting till 
the body was borne in to those solemn sentences which all 
of us know sadly well, beginning — “ Man that is born of 
a woman. 

After it walked Lady Damerel, in her widow^s weeds; 
erect and steady, but alone — in that utmost heart-loneli- 
ness which a woman, if she has a heart at all, can feel, 
when husband and children have gone to the grave before 
her, and she only is left, to a desolate old age. As she 
passed him, she looked up and saw Arthur. He did not 
look at her — his eyes were fixed on the coffin: but at 
some slight gesture she made he stepped forward — as he 
might have intended to do in any case — and took his place 
beside her. 

The service continued. The body was lowered into the 
vault — the solemn spadeful of “earth to earth rattled 
down — heard distinctly through the dark, chilly church; — 
there was the final pause — the last gaze into that gloomy 
cave of death — and Lady Damerel turned to go. 

“ She-’s fainting,’-’ Arthur heard somebody whisper. 
Whether she took the help, or he offered it, he never knew; 
but her hand was upon his arm, and leaning heavily, 
almost staggering sometimes, she passed through the re- 
spectful if not very sympathetic crowd, to the church door. 
There, almost in her path, stood the gaunt figure of the 
Kentucky doctor; who knew — had known — everything. 

Perhaps the woman felt that all was over, and deter- 
mined to do with a good grace what she would soon be com- 
pelled to do; which after all might be the best and most 
prudent thing for her to do. Or — may be — ^let us give her 
the benefit of the doubt— even thus late, nature was tug- 
ging at her heart. When Arthur had put h^r into the 


184 


KING ARTHUB. 


carriage, and was lifting his hat with a formal farewell 
bow, she leaned forward and seized his hand: 

“ Come home with me! You must — ^it is necessary. - I 
will confess; — ^you shall claim your rights — everything will 
be yours. 

The boy hesitated a moment — he was a man and yet a 
boy; he turned very pale, and looked round — was it for his 
real mother, who was not the woman that bore him? But 
Dr. Frankhn behind said imperatively Go!^^ — and he 
went. 

What the two said to one another when shut up in the 
carriage together, or what revelations were made that 
afternoon, when Dr. Franklin, having been sent for by the 
family lawyer, who of course had come for the funeral, 
went up to Tawton Abbas, was never clearly explained, but 
before night-fall the news had run like wild-fire through the 
village that Arthur Trevena, the rector’s adopted son, had 
been suddenly discovered to be Sir Arthur Damerel, Sir 
Charles’s lawful heir. Of course a large amount of fiction 
w^as mingled with fact. The presumptive heir — ^the second 
cousin once removed — ^^arrived post-haste next day — just too 
late for the hasty funeral — (she was a clever woman. Lady 
Damerel!) — and it was said he intended to fight it out by 
law. However, either he became convinced that litigation 
was hopeless; or had no money to waste among lawyers; he 
swallowed his disappointment and stayed on placidly at 
Tawton Abbas. He even, some weeks after, assisted cheer- 
fully at the ringing of bells, the roasting of oxen, and other 
festivities — which indicated the delight of the neighborhood 
that ‘‘poor Sir Charles” was not the last of the Dame- 
rels. 

The strange story was a nine days’ wonder; and then it 
all died out. It was nobody’s business except the Dame- 
rels’ ; and they were satisfied. The widow — who had been 
seen by nobody except the lawyers — went away “for 
change of air/’ and Sir Arthur Damerel reigned in his 


KIKG ARTHUR. 


185 


father^ s stead — the father who had never known of his ex- 
istence. It was a strange chapter in human life — so strange 
that at first hardly anybody believed it; until, one by one, 
everybody got used to it, and accepted things as they were, 
without overmuch questioning. 

As, of course, all this change was hkewise accepted at 
the rectory. Mrs. Trevena looked a trifle paler — she had 
become excessively pale and thin within the past year; 
“ worn to a shadow,'’^ people said; but she answered, with 
a peaceful smile, all the questions and congratulations. 
Only she never spoke of Sir Arthur except as ‘ ‘ my son. 

There was another thing which she had to settle; and be 
also congratulated upon, and that was my song’s mar- 
riage. ^ ^ ^ 

“You couldnT expect me to live in that big house all 
alone, mother,^'’ pleaded Arthur — with amusing simplicity. 
“ And since I can not possibly get you, why not let me 
have Nanny to take care of me?^^ 

It did indeed seem tlie wisest plan. Though they were 
both so young — only nineteen and twenty-one — still they 
were not “ foolish for both had already battled with the 
world sufficiently to gain premature wisdom. And perhaps 
after all, though this generation does not think so, early 
marriages, when not rash or improvident, are best. Our 
grandfathers and grandmothers, who did not wait to be 
rich, but began life simply, as their parents did before 
them, and spent together their fresh, unstained hopeful 
youth, their busy maturity, their peaceful old age, were 
probably happier than we of to-day; who fritter away in 
idle flirtihg, or more harmful things, our blossoming time; 
mariying late in life with all the heart gone out of us; or 
never marrying at all, and then arguing sagely that to “ fall 
in love ^Ms a folly, and to marry is httle less than a crime. 

Mrs. Trevena did not think so — would not have thought 
so, even had her son been still “ poor Arthur Trevena. 
When, now he was ISir Arthur Damerel, he began to speak 


186 


KING ARTHUR. 


of his marriage, all she suggested was that he should wait a 
year, out of respect to the dead; and to gain a little experi- 
ence in managing his large property, for the good of the 
living. 

“ A year is a long time, said he disconsolately. 

Is it?^^ answered his mother, with a strange, far-away 
look, which startled him a moment, till he saw it melt into 
her usual smile. “ Then let it be six months, my dear. 
Leave me Nanny, and stay you beside me for just six 
months more. Then — do as you will. 

For the young people, neither of whom had seen the 
world, were determined, as soon as ever they were married, 
to go abroad and enjoy themselves; visiting Switzerland, 
Italjr — perhaps even going on to Constantinople! They 
were so happy — so full of plans — so resolved to do no end 
of good on their estate; but they wanted just this little bit 
of pleasure — a harmless frolic together before they settled 
down. 

And so the winter passed, very happily; Arthur being at 
the rectory almost as much as when he used to live there; 
but never failing to go back of nights to his large dull 
house. He also spent conscientiously every forenoon in his 
study with his steward, repairing much evil that had come 
about in his father's days, and planning no end of good to 
be done in his own. A happy time ! full of hope for every- 
body. Nobody noticed much that Mrs. Trevena was the 
only one who smiled more than she spoke, and made no 
personal plans for the future at all. 

She had had, ever since Sir Charles's funeral in the 
chilly church, her usual winter cold; rather worse than 
usual; for she ceased to fight against it; left everything to 
Nanny and gradually kept entirely to the house, then to 
her own room — a new thing, which her husband could not 
understand at all. He went wandering about the rectory 
like a spirit in pain; or walked out into the village and 
wandered there, paying necessary or unnecessary pastoral 


KING AKTHUE. 


187 


visits^ and telling everybody “ that Mrs. Trevena had a 
bad cold, but would certainly be about again in a day or 
two. And sometimes, strong in this expectation, when he 
returned he would come to the foot of the stairs and call 
“ Susannah just as usual; expecting her to come, as she 
always used to come, nobody knew from where — till he be- 
thought himself to go in search of her to her room. There 
he always found her, and sat down content by her side. 

But, beyond that room, always so cheerful and bright — 
with sunshine if there was any sun, with firelight if there 
was none, the house and he had to endure her absence, to 
learn to do without her. Under Kanny^s charge all went 
on as usual — “the old original clock-work way, Arthur 
called it, and hoped his wife would keep his big house as 
well as his mother had kept this little one. But day after 
day there was the empty chair at the head of the table, the 
empty sofa by the drawing-room fire, the work-box that 
nobody opened, the book that nobody read. 

Did any of them understand? Did Susannah herself un- 
derstand? Who can tell? 

There comes to us all a time when we begin to say, si- 
lently of course, our Nunc dimittis. We are tired — so 
tired! Perhaps we ought not to be, and* many good people 
would reprove us for being so, but we are tired — 

“ We have had all the joys that the world could bestow, 

We have lived, we have loved.” 

Or else, we have had no joys, and have long since given up 
the hope of any. Which was scarcely Susannah ^s case, and 
yet she was tired. 

When they left her alone — though they never did it for 
long — she would lean her head back against her pillows, 
with the weary look of one who waits for bed-time. All 
about her was so busy and bustling. One day she had 
watched her husband, hale and hearty, march down the 
garden to inquire about the first brood of chickens, and a 
February lamb. 


188 


KING ABTHUK. 


“ It will soon be spring/^ sbe said to herself, and listened 
to what seemed like a thrushes note in the garden; soon 
drowned by Arthur^ s piano below stairs, where he sat play- 
ing, with his ‘‘ little Nanny beside him — the girl who was 
almost as good as a wife to him already; taking care of 
him, guiding him, and adoring him by turns. “ How 
happy he is — that boy!^^ and a tear or two dropped from 
Susannah ^s eyes; human tears! ‘‘I should like to have 
seen his children — just one little baby, like himself — my 
little baby that I loved so. It would have been the old days 
over again; when I sat in the rocking-chair — he in his 
night-gown, sucking his thumb, with his eyes fixed on my 
face, and his two little feet in one of my hands. Wasn^t 
he a pretty baby?^^ 

The last sentence was said aloud, and in French, to 
Manetfce — now grown stout and middle-aged, but with her 
faithful Swiss heart still devoted to her mistress, creeping 
up on every excuse from her cooking to see if madam e 
wanted anything. 

No; Susannahs wants were few — as they always had 
been. She was an invalid who gave no trouble to anybody. 
The coming Angel came so stealthily, so peacefully, that 
no one ever heard his step. 

Stop a minute, Manette,” she said, after a few min- 
utes^ cheerful chat. I wish you would bring the rocking- 
chair out of the nursery — I mean Miss Nanny ^s room — dear 
me, how stupid I am growing! I should like to have it 
here. ^ 

Manette brought it: and when the young people came 
upstairs — which they did very soon, for they were not self- 
ish lovers— ArthiTl’ greeted it with a shout of delight, and 
declared it made him feel “ like a little baby once more. 
All that evening he insisted on sitting down on the floor at 
his mother^’s feet; and let her play with his curls, or what 
remained of them, for he was a fashionable young man 
now, and had his hair cut like other golden youths, He 


KIKG AKTHUB. 


189 


told Nanny ridiculous stories of his childhood, making 
himself out to be twice as naughty as he ever had been; 
forcing even his mother to laugh, and laughing himself till 
the tears ran down his cheeks. In fact, cheerful and con- 
tent as they always were at the rectory, they had seldom 
spent so merry an evening; the rector included — who came 
up from his Saturday nighk’s sermon, put off as usual till 
the last minute — and begged to have tea jn his wife^s room. 

Everything seems so out of order down-stairs when you 
are not there, Susannah, said he restlessly. ‘‘You really 
must try to come down to-morrow. Now, pour ou|; my 
tea, Nanny. 

No — not Nanny this time,^^ her aunt said gently, and 
bidding Arthur move the table closer, she poured out her 
husband ^s tea, and gave it to him with her own hand — a 
rather shaky hand; as they remembered afterward, and 
wondered they had never noticed it, nor how white and 
quiet she sat, long after the meal was over. 

When Arthur had kissed his mother and. bade her good- 
night, and Nanny came back, extra rosy, from the other 
rather lengthy good-night which always took place at the 
hall door — she thought her aunt looked more tired than 
usual, and said so, offering to stay beside her for awhile. 

Oh, no!"*^ Mrs. Trevena answered. “ Let everybody go 
to bed, except Manette. She can sit with me till your uncle 
comes out of his study. Nanny ^ ^ — holding the girEs hand, 
and looking hard into her face — you^ll take care of your 
uncle? And — no, I need not tell you to take care of 
Arthur. Kiss me, my dear. Good-night. 

That was all. 

An hour later, Nanny was startled out of her happy 
sleep, as sound as a Childs's, to see Manette standing, white 
with terror, at her bedside. That had happened which 
nobody feared or expected — except, perhaps, the sufferer 
herself. A sudden and violent fit of coughing had produced 
heinorrhage of the lungs, and Mrs. Trevena was dying. 


190 


KING AKTHUR. 


Nanny sprung out of her bed — she had had long experi- 
ence in sick-nursing, enough to know that this was a ques- 
tion not of days or hours, but of minutes — that there was 
no time to summon anybody, that what help could be 
given must be given at once, by herself and Manette alone, 
for there was nobody to aid them, and no time to call any- 
body. 

Susannah let them do all they could. She was quite con- 
scious — smiled her thanks several times, but she never at- 
tempted to speak a word. Except once, when she heard 
Manette proposing to fetch Mr. Trevena, and motioned a 
feeble but decided negative. 

No, no! Save him from — from anything painful. 
Don^t let liim see me — till afterward. 

And so it befell that the breast upon which the parting 
soul relied was not her husband^ s, not Arthur^s, both so 
tenderly beloved, but Nanny’s, whom she had always been 
kind to, and liked much without actually loving — Nanny, 
the blameless daughter of her lifelong foe. 

There, just before midnight, while the rector was still 
busy over his sermon, and Arthur at Tawton Abbas was 
sleeping the sleep of healthy, happy youth, Susannah 
gradually lost all memory even of them, all consciousness 
of the world about her, and passed peacefully away into the 
world unknown. 

When the two who to her had been so infinitely dear came 
to look at her, there was, as she had wished, ‘‘ nothing 
painful ” — only a beautiful image of eternal rest. Did she 
love them still? Who knows? Let us pray that it may be 
so. 

He 9ic :)< % 

None can mourn forever: it is not right they should. 
But it was a whole year before Arthur recovered from the 
blow which, to him, had fallen like a thunder-bolt out of a 
clear sky. The young seldom realize death unless it comes 
quite close to them. It had never entered his mind that his 
mother would die — until she died. He could not imagine 
existence without her. The shock was so great, and the 
change it wrought in him so piteous, that Nanny was for a 
time absolutely terrified. Both the young people seemed 
to grow suddenly old. They spoke of love and marriage 
no more, but devoted themselves' like a real son and 


KmOt AETHtJR. 191 

daughter to the desolate man who had lost even more than 
they. 

The rector was very quiet from first to last. Whether he 
grieved or not, no one could tell; from the day of her 
funeral he rarely mentioned hiswife^s name. But he often 
went wandering mournfully about the house as if in search 
of her, and then went silently back 4o his books; taking 
very little interest in anything else. He seemed to have 
suddenly turned into an old man — quite patient and quite 
helpless. It was not without cause that Nanny always 
answered when questioned about the date of her marriage, 
‘‘ I couldnT leave him; she told me to take care of hiin.^^ 
In truth, for a long time all that the forlorn three appeared 
to think of was to do exactly as she had said, or would have 
wished. 

And they were doing it, they felt sure, when, as the 
primroses of the second spring began to blossdni over her 
grave, Arthur took courage and again asked for Nanny. 
The birds were singing, the little lambs bleating, the 
chickens chirping — all her young “ family, as Susannah 
used to call them — the creatures whom she had so liked to 
see happy about her. 

“ She would like us to be happy, I know,^^ Arthur said, 
when he urged the question, and insisted to Nanny that 
Manette was quite able to take charge of the rector now, 
and that she herself would not be more than a few minutes^ 
walk from her uncle. When Mr. Trevena was told all this 
he assented without hesitation to the marriage. It did not 
much matter to him who took care of him now. He might 
live many years yet — the bookworm ^s placid self-absorbed 
life ; but the half of himself was missing forever. 

So, one bright spring day, Arthur led his bride past his 
mo therms grave. His mother would not have grieved : she 
would have been glad — as is the instinct of all unselfish 
souls. 

“ On that grave drop not a tear . . , 

Rather smile there, blessed one, 

Thinking of me in the sun; 

Or forget me, smiling on.” 

But she was not forgotten — she never could be. She 
had lived long enough to make her boy all that he was; to 
form his mind and character, heart and soul; to fit him for 
the aims and duties of life; high aims and serious duties; 




KING ARTHUE. 


for Sir Arthur Damerel is not the sort of man to hide him- 
self, or submit to be hidden, under a bushel. His position 
must inevitably bring him many a responsibility, many a 
trouble and care; but he will fight through all, with his 
wife beside him — little Nanny, who has given the neighbor- 
hood an entirely new and revised edition of the Lady 
Hamerels of Tawtop Abbas. Active, energetic, kindly, 
benevolent — he is so well loved both by rich and poor that 
no one stops to consider whether or not she is beautiful. 
Nor does her husband. To him she is simply little 
Nanny. 

One of their duties — not always a pleasant one — is their 
yearly visit of a day or two to the Dowager Lady Damerel, 
who has turned very religious, and is made much of in a 
select circle who have taken the title of Believers,^'’ one of 
their points of belief being that nobody can be saved, ex- 
cept themselves. Such a creed is the natural outcome of 
that pleasure-loving egoism which had characterized her 
earlier days. The greater the sinner, the greater the saint 
— if such sainthood is worth anything. She takes very 
little interest in her son or his belongings; except perhaps 
in one very handsome baby granddaughter, who she declares 
is just like herself; but they are on terms of the utmost 
politeness. Only he never calls her anything but “ Lady 
Damerel.^^ - He feels that his real mother — “ my mother, 
as he always speaks of her, and scarcely a day passes that 
he does not speak of her — ^was she who sleeps in that quiet 
grave within sight of the dining-room window of the dear 
old rectory. 

And Susannah, had she known this, and seen how her 
influence will descend through Arthur to his children's 
children, would have died content, feeling that those one- 
and-twenty years had not been thrown away — that she had 
not only made her own life and her husband ^s happy — but, 
as good Dr. Franklin once said, she had “ saved a soul 
ahv^e. 


THE END. 


ADVERTISEMENTS. 



THE BEST 

faslini Compoifl 

EVER INVENTED. 

No Lady, Married or Sin- 
gle, Rich or Poor, House- 
keeping or Boarding, will 
be without it after testing 
its utility. 

Sold by all first-class 
Grocers, but beware of 
worthless imitations. 


GLUTEN SUPPOSITORIES 

CURE CONSTIEATIOI^ AI\I> JPIEES. 

80 Cents by Mail. Circulars Free. 

HEALTH FOOD CO., 

4tli Avenue and lOth St., IV. IT. 


CAMPY 

CANDY 


Send $1, $2, $3 or $5 for a sample retail box by 
Express, of 

THE BEST CANDIES IN AMERICA, 

put up in elegant boxes, and strictly pure. Suit- 
able for presents. Express charges light. Refer 
to all Chicago. Try it once. 

If preferred, fine candy at 25c.. 40e., and 60c. 
per pound: the best in the land for the 
money. Address 

C. F. GEIVTIIER, 

Confectioner, 

CHICAGO. 


WHAT IS SAPOLIO? 


It is a solid, 
handsome cake 
of scouring soa]), 
which has no 

^qual for all cleaning purposes except the laundry. To use it is to value it. 

V hat will Sapolio do? Why. it will clean paint, make oil-cloths bright, and 
give the floors, tables and shelves a new appearance. 

It will take the grease off the dishes and off the pots and pans. 

You cau scour the knives and forks with it, and make the tin things shine 
brightly. The wash-basin, the bath-tub. even the greasy kitchen sink, will 
be as clean as a new pin if you use SAPOLIO. One cake will prove 
we say. Be a clever little housekeeper and try it, 

BEWARE OF IMITATIONS. 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 

Tie Seaside Library-Pocket Edition. 


Persons who wish to purchase the following works in complete and un- 
abridged form are cautioned to order and see that they get The Seaside 
Library, Pocket Edition, as works published in other Libraries are fre- 
quently abridged and incomplete. Every number of The Seaside Library 
is unchanged and unabridged. 

Newsdealers wishing Catalogues of The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, 
bearing their imprint, will be supplied on semding their names, addresses, 
and number required. 

The works in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, are printed from 
larger type and on better paper than any other series published. 

The following works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to 
any address, postage free, on receipt of price, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N, Y. 

[When ordering by mail please order by numbers.'] 


ALPHABETICAL LIST. 


302 Abbot, The. Sequel to “ The 
Monastery.” By Sir Walter 

Scott 

36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot. 
388 Addie’s Husband ; or. Through 
Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of “ Love or Lands?”. 
5 Admiral's Ward. The. By Mrs. 
Alexander 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 
600 Adrian Vidal. By W. E. Norris 
477 Affinities. By Mrs. Campbell 

Praed 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Fen- 
imore Cooper 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By ” Ouida” 

603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 

Half 

603 Agues. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond Half 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 
14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The 

Duchess ” 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters 

636 Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 1st half 

636 Alice Ijorraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 2d half 

650 Alice; or. The Mysteries. (ASe- 

S uel to ” Ernest Maltravers.”) 

y Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. By Lewis Carroll. With 
forty-twoillustrations by John 

Tenuiel 

97 All in a Garden Fair. By Wal- 
ter Besant.. 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 
Other Tales, Mrs. Forrester. 


47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence 01i^ 

phant 20 

20 253 Amazon, The. By Carl Vosmaer 10 
20 447 American Notes. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

176 An April Day. By Philippa Prit- 

tie Jephson lO 

403 An English Squire. By C. R. 

20 Coleridge 20 

20 648 Angel of the Bells, The. Bj' F. 

'20 Du Boisgobey 20 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 

10 Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Buch- 

20 anan 20 

200 An Old Man’s Love. By Anthony 

10 Trollope 10 

93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 

20 raphj'^ 20 

395 Archipelago on Fire, The. By 

20 Jules Verne If) 

20 532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 
247 Armourer’s Prentices, The. By 

10 Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

224 Arundel Motto, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay '. 20 

347 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

10 Vince 20 

541 ” As it Fell Upon a Day.” By 

20 “The Duchess,” and Uncle 

Jack. By Walter Besant 10 

20 560 Asphodel. By Miss Braddon. 20 
540 At a High Price. By E. Werner ^ 
352 At Any Cost. By Edw. Garrett 10 
20 564 At Bay. By Mrs. Alexander. . . 10 
528 At His Gates. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

Warden 20 

20 287 At War With Herself. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

20 “Dora Thorne” 10 

737 Aunt Rachel. By David Christie 

10 Murray lo 

( 1 ) 


THE BEAEWE LinUAliY.—Vocket Edition. 


74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E, 

Braddon 

730 Autobio}>rraphy of Benjamin 
Franklin, The 


3;^ Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 
(Translated from the French 
of Fortun6 Du Boisgobey.) 

First half 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 
(Translated' from the French 
of Fortune Du Boisgobey.) 

Second half 

241 Baby’s Grandmother, The. By 

L. B. Walford 

342 Baby, The, and One New Year’s 

Eve. By “ The Duchess ” 

611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 

443 Bachelor of the Albany, The. . . 
683 Bachelor Vicar of Newforth, 
The. By Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe 
65 Back to the Old Home. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 

99 Barbara’s History. By Amelia 

B. Edwards 

234 Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 

653 Barren Title, A. T. W. Speight 
731 Bayou Bride, The. By Mrs. 

Mary E. Bryan 

717 Beau Tancredb; or, the Mar- 
riage Verdict. By Alexander 

Dumas ... 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. By “ The 

Duchess ” 

86 Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 
593 Berna Boyle. By Mrs. J. H. 

Riddell 

581 Betrothed, The. (I Promessi 
Sposi,) Alessandro Manzoni. 
620 Between the Heather and the 
Northern Sea. By M. Linskill 
466 Between Two Loves. By Char- 
lotte M. Braerne, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 

476 Between Two Sins. By Char- 
lotte M. Braerne, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me 

308 Beyond Pardon 

257' Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 
geant. . . 

553 Birds of Prey. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 

320 Bit of Human Nature, A. By 

David Christie Murray. 

411 Bitter Atonement, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braerne, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ”... 

430 Bitter Reckoning, A. By the au- 
thor of “By CJrooked Paths ” 


Black Dwarf, The, and A Le- 
gend of Montrose. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

Blatchford Bequest, The. By 
Hugh Conway , author of 

“Called Back” 10 

Bleak House. By Chai’les Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 30' 

Boulderstone ; or, New Men and 
Old Populations. By William 

Sime 10 

Bravo, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

Bride of Lammermoor, The. 

By Sir Walter Scott 20 

Bride of Monte- Cristo, The. A 
Sequel to “ The (iJount of 
Monte-Cristo.” By Alexan- 
der Dumas 10 

Britta. By George Temple 10 

Broken Wedding-Ring, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braerne, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

By Mead and Stream. By Chas. 

Gibbon 20 

By the Gate of the Sea. By D. 
Christie Murray. 10 


Caged Lion, The. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 
Camiola: A Girl With a Fortune. 

By Justin McCarthy 20 

Canon’s Ward, The. By James 

Payn 20 

Captain’s Daughter, The. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

Cara Roma. By Miss Grant 20 

Cardinal Sin, A. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “ Called 

Back ” 20 

Carriston’s Gift. By Hugh 
Conway, author of “Called 

Back” 10 

Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 10 

Cavalry Life ; or, Sketches and 
Stories in Barracks and Out 1 

By J. S. Winter 30 

Chainbearer, The; or, The Lit- 
tlepage Manuscripts. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
Dragoon. By (Charles Lever. 

First half 20 

Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

Second half 20 

Charlotte’s Inheritance. (A Se- 
quel to “ Birds of Prey.”) By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. 

Rowson 10 

Cherry. By tile author of “A 

Great Mistake 10 


353 

20 

10 302 

106 

106 

20 429 

394 

20 

362 

10 

259 

10 

20 

10 

642 

20 54 

10 

317 

20 

58 

20 

20 

20 739 

20 240 

10 602 

20 186 

149 

20 

555 

10 711 

20 

20 502 

20 

364 

20 

746 

20 

419 

10 

10 212 

20 

10 212 

20 

554 

10 

61 

20 

588 

10 

(3) 


THE SEAtHDE LlBUAliY.— Pocket Edition. 


/13 “ Cherry Ripe,” By Helen B. 

Mathers 

.'19 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 

By Lord Byron 

J?76 Child’s History of England, A, 

By Charles Dickens 

(557 Christmas Angel. By B. L. Ear- 

jeon 

• o31 Christowell. By R. D. Blackmore 
o07 Chronicles of the Canongate, 
and Other Stories. By Sir 

Walter Scott 

632 Clara Vaughan. By R. D. Black- 
more 

33 Clique of Gold, The, By Emile 

Gaboriau 

499 Cloven Foot, The. By , Miss M. 

E. Braddon . 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. By 

Lut?as Malet 

221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By Helen 

B. Mathers 

523 Consequences of a Duel, The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 

547 Coijuette’s Conquest, A. By 

Basil 

104 Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 
gobey. 1st half 

104 Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 

gobe 3 \ 2d half 

598 Corinna. By “Rita” 

262 Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part I 
262 Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part H 
687 Country Gentleman, A. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 

590 Courting of Mary Smith, The. 

By F. W. Robinson 

258 Cousins. By L. B. Walford .... 
649 Cradle and Spade. By William 

Sime 

630 Cradock Nowell. Bj^ R. D. 

Blackmore. First half 

6^10 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. Second half 

108 Cricket on the Hearth, The, 
and Doctor Marigold. By 

Charles Dickens 

376 Crime of Christmas Day, The, 
By the author of ” My Ducats 

and My Daughter ” 

706 Crimson Stain, A. Bj' Annie 

Bradshaw 

629 Cripps, the Carrier. By P D. 

Blackmore " 

504 Curly : An Actor’s Story By 
John Coleman. Illustrated. 
My Poor Wife. By the author 

of “ Addie's Husband ” 

544 Cut by the County: or, Grace 
Darnel. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don 

446 Dame Durden. By “Rita”... 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot. First half 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George 
Eliot, S»«cond half 


Dark Days. By Hugh Conw'ay 10 
Dark House, The : A Knot Un- 
raveled. By G. Manville Fenn 10 
Daughter of Heth, A. By Will- 
iam Black 20 

Daughter of the Stars, The, and 
Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
w^ay, author of “ Called 

Back ” 10 

David Copperfield. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

David Copperfield. By Charles 


Oliphant 20 

Dead Heart, A, and Lady Gwen- 
doline’s Dream. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

Dead Man’s Secret, The. By Dr. 

Jupiter Paeon 20 

Dead Men’s Shoes. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Deldee ; or. The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

Diana Carew; or. For a Wom- 
an’s Sake. By Mrs. Forrester 20 
Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith 10 

Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 

Pai’t 1 20 

Diavola,: or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
bu'. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 

Part II 20 

Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen. Bj’^ Jules Verne 20 

Dick’s Sweetheart. Bj^ “ The 

Duchess ” 20 

Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 
drew Lang 10 

Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 

jendie 10 

Doctor Jacob. By Miss Betham- 

Ed wards 20 

Doctor’s Wife, The, By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Dolores. By Mrs, Forrester. . . 20 
Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. First half 20 

Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 20 

Donal Grant. By George Mac- 
Donald ^ . 20 

Don Gesualdo. By“Ouida.”.. 10 
Dora Thorre. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 20 

Doris. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

Doi-othy Forster. By Wal^ 

Besant > . 

Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary 

Cecil Haj^ ’ 20 

Dove in the Eagle’s Nest, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

Drawn Game, A. By Basil 20 

Ducie Diamonds, The. By C. 
Blatherwick 10 


^ 4 


301 

20 609 

10 81 

20 251 

10 

20 

22 

10 22 

20 527 

10 305 

20 

20 374 

20 567 

20 286 

20 115 

20 744 

20 350 

10 

478 

20 

20 478 

20 

87 

20 

20 486 

20 536 

20 185 

20 594 

529 

10 

721 

107 

10 

107 

10 

J asa 

26. 

671 

51 

lO 284 

230 

10 678 

20 665 

20 585 

151 

20 

( 8 ) 


THE SEAf^WE LI BnAJlY.— rocket Edition. 


549 Dudley Carleon ; or, The Bi’oth- 
er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field's Journey. By Miss M. 
E. Braddon 


465 Earl’s Atonement, The. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 

8 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 

685 England under Gladstone. 1880 
— 1885'. By Justin H. McCar- 
thy, M.P 

.521 Entangled. By E. Fairfax 

Byrrne 

025 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin. 

By R. D. Blackmore 

96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Bal- 

lantyne 

90 Ernest Maltravers. By Sir E. Bul- 

wer Lytton 

162 Eugene Aranx. By Sir E. Bulwer 

L3'tton 

470 Evelyn’s Follj*. By- Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

62 Executor, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. 
Mathers 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 
Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 
538 Fair Country Maid, A. By E. 

Fairfax Byrrne 

961 Fair Maid, A. By F. W. Robin- 
son 

417 Fair Maid of Perth, The; or, 
St. Valentine’s Day. By Sir 

Walter Scott, Bart 

626 Fair Mj’sterj", A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

727 Pair Women. By Mrs. Forrester 
30 Faith and Unfaith. By “ The 

Duchess ” 

.54il Family Affair, A. By Hugh 
Conway, author of “ Called 

Back ” 

.338 Family Difficulty, The. By Sa- 
rah Doudney 

690 Far From the Madding Crowd. 

By Thomas Hardy 

680 Fast and Loose. By Arthur 

Griffiths 

246 Fatal Dower, A. By the Author 
• of “ His Wedded Wife ” .... 

299 Fatal Lilies, The, and A Bride 
from the Sea. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” - 

548 Fatal Marriage, A, and The 
Shadow in the Corner. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 

693 Felix Holt, the Radical. By 

George Eliot 

542 Fenton^s Quest. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon 


JFile No. 113. B^' Emile Gabo- 

riau 20 

Finger of Fate, The. By Cap- 
tain Mayne Reid 20 

Fire Brigade, The. By R. M. 

Ballantyne lO 

First Person Singular. By Da- 
vid Christie Murray 20 

Fisher Village, The. By Anne 

Beale 10 

Flower of Doom, The, and 
Other Stories. By M. Betham- 

Edwards 10 

For .Another’s Sin; or, A Strug- 
gle for Love. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

“ Fora Dream’s Sake.” B.y Mrs. 

Herbert Martin .' 20 

Foreigners, The. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

For Her Dear Sake. By MaiT 

Cecil Hay 20 

For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight 10 

For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 
For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carej^ 20 

For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant 

Allen 20 

“ For Percival.” By Margaret 

Veley 20 

Fortune’s Wheel. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

Fortunes, Good and Bad, of a 
Sewing-Girl, The. Bj’ Char- 
lotte M. Stanley 10 

Foul Pla>^ By Charles Reade . 20 
Found Out. Bj’ Helen B. 

Mathers 10 

Frank Fairlegh ; or. Scenes 
From the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 

Fi'iendship. By “Oiiida” 20 

From Gloom to Sunlight. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

From Olympus to Hades. Bj' 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

From Post to Finish. A Racing 
Romance. By Hawley Smart 20 

Gambler’s Wife, The 20 

George Christy; or. The Fort- 
unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 

20 

Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 
Ghost of Charlotte Craj', The, 
and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

Ghost’s Touch, The, and Percy 
and the Prophet. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

Giant’s Robe, The. By P. Anstej" 20 
Gilded Sin, A, and A Bridge 
of Love. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 10 


r* 

4 

575 

10 

95 

674 

20 199 

20 579 

20 745 

20 

20 156 

10 173 

20 197 

20 150 

278 

20 608 

20 712 

10 586. 

171 

10 

468 

20 

20 216 

438 

20 333 

20 226 

20 288 

20 

732 

20 348 

10 

20 285 

365 

20 

10 331 

208 

10 613 

10 225. 

300 

20 

20 

( 4 ) 


THE SEASIDE JAERARY.-Poclcet Edition. 


644 Girton Girl, A. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 

140 Glorious Fortune, A. By Wal- 
ter Besant 

647 Goblin Gold. By May Crom- 

nielin 

450 Godfrey Helstone. By Georg^i- 

ana M. Craik 

153 Golden Calf, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

306 Golden Dawn, A, and Love for a 
Day. B}’ Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 
G.5G Golden Flood, The. By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm. Senior. . 
173 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 
392 Golden Heart, A. B}' Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 

667 Golden Lion of Granpere, The. 

By Anthony Trollope 

356 Good Hater, A. Bj' Frederick 

Boyle 

710 Greatest Heiress in England, 

The. By Mrs. Oliphant 

439 Great Expectations. By Charles 

Dickens 

135 Great Heiress, A : A Fortune in 
Seven Checks. Bj^ R. E. Fran- 

cillon 

244 Great Mistake, A . ]3v the author. 

of “His Wedded Wife” 

170 Great Treason, A. By Mary 

Hoppus 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By Wm. Black 

S31 Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 

By Charles Reade 

677 Griselda. By the author of “ A 
Woman’s Love-Story” 


*>97 Haco the Dreamer. By William 

Sime 

1)68 Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 

1163 Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover 
84 Hard Times. By Chas. Dickens 
<522 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. By 

Anthony TrolloiJe. 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever .* 

569 Harry Muir. By Mrs. Oliphant 
169 Haunted Man, The. By Charles 

Dickens 

53J1 Hazel Kirke. By Marie Walsh 
385 Headsman. The; or. The Ab- 
baye des Viguerons. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 

572 Healey. By Jessie Fothergill. 
167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 

444 Heart of Jane Warner, The. By 

Florence Marryat 

391 Heart of Mid-Lothian, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 
Deuce. B}^ David Christie- 
Murray 


Heiress of Hilldrop, The; or. 
The Romance of a Young 
Girl. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 
Heir Presumptive, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 
Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood... 10 

Henrietta’s Wish; or, Domi- 
neering. By Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tytler lO 

Her Martyrdom. By Cliarlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

Her Mother’s Sin. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 10 

Hidden Perils. Mary Cecil Hay 10 

Hidden Sin, The. A^Novel. . . 20 
Hilary’s Folly. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne"” 10 

Hilda. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 
History of a Week, The. By 

Mrs. L. B. Walford 10 

Hi.story of Henry Esmond, The. 

By William M. Thackeray. . . 20 
His Wedded Wife. By author 
of “ Ladybird’s Penitence ” . . 20 
Homeward Bound; or. The 

Chase. By J. F. Cooper 20 

Home as Found. (Sequel to 
“ Homeward Bound.”) By J. 

Fenimore Cooper ! . . . 20 

Hostages to Fortune. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

Houp-La. By John Strange 

Winter. (Illustrated) 10 

Hurrish : A Study. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 

House Divided Against Itself, 

A. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

House on the Marsh, The. By 

F. Warden lO 

House on the Moor, The. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

House That Jack Built, The. 

B}’- Alison 10 

Husband’s Story, A lO 

Ichabod. A Portrait. By Bertha 

Thomas lo 

Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

I Have Lived and Loved. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

Ingledew House, and More Bit- 
ter than Death. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” lO 

In Cu])id’s Net. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” lo 

In Durance Vile. B3" “The 
Duchess” 10 


741 

20 

10 

689 

10 

513 

20 

20^ 535 

10 160 

10 576 

20 

19 

10 

20 196 

518 

20 297 

20 

294 

20 

658 

10 165 

20 461 

30 378 

20 379 

20 

552 

20 

600 

748 

10 

703 

20 

20 248 

10 

a5i 

10 

481 

20 

20 198 

10 

20 389 

188 

20 715 

20 

303 

20 

20 

304 

20 

404 

20 


TEE BE Am EE LlBnARY.— Pocket Edition. 


324 lu Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 

672 InMaremnia. By “ Ouida.” 1st 

half 

672 In Maremma. By “ Ouida.” 2d 

half 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 

Half 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond Half 

677 In Peril and Privation. By 

James Payn 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 
Black Horse) Dragoons. By 

J. S. Winter 

f59 In Shallow Waters. By Annie 

Annitt 

39 In Silk Attire. By William Black 
738 In the Golden Days. By Edna 

Lyall 

682 In the Middle Watch. By W. 

Clark Russell 

452 In the West Countrie. By May 

Crommelin 

383 Introduced to Society. By Ham- 
ilton Ai’dO 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 

233 “ I Say No;” or, The Love-Let- 
ter Answered. By Wilkie Col- 
lins 

235 ” It is Never Too Late to Mend.” 

By Charles Reade 

28 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott. 


534 Jack. By Alphonse Daudet 

416 Jack Tier; or, The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper, 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 1st half 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 2d half 

519 James Gordon's Wife, A Novel 
15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bront6 
728 Janet’s Repentance. By George 

Eliot 

142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas — 

357 John. B.y Mrs. Oliphant 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

Max O’Rell 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
True Light. By a “Brutal 

Saxon ” 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. By 

Miss Mulock 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 

694 John Maidment, By Julian 

Sturgis 

570 John Mai chmont’s Legacy. By 

Miss M. E. Bi addon 

488 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 

619 Joy; or. The Light of Cold- 
Home Ford. By May Crom- 
meliu ... 


Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 
Affairs and Other Advent- 
ures. By William Black 20 

Judith Wynne. 20 

June. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

Just As I Am. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon .' 20 

Kilmeny. By William Black.. 20 
Klytia : A Story of Heidelberg 
Castle. By George Taylor. .. 20 

Lady Branksmere. By “The 

Duchess” ,20 

Lady Audley’s Secret. Bj^ Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

Lady Clare ; or. The Master of 
the Foi’ges. From the French 

of Georges Ohnet 10 

Lady Darner’s Secret. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The Mi- 
ser’s Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller 20 

Lady Lovelace. By the author 

of “Judith Wynne” 20 

Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

Lady of Lyons, The. Founded 
on the Play of that title by 

Lord Lytton *. 10 

Lady’s Mile, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Lady With the Rubies, The. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

Lancaster's Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

Lancelot Ward, M.P. By George 

Temple 10 

Land Leaguers, The. By An- 
thony Trollope 20 

Ijast Days at Apswich 10 

Last Days of Pompeii, The. By 
Bulwer Lytton 20 


Last of the Barons, The, By Sir 


E. Bulwer Lj'tton. 1st half.. 20 
Last of the Barons, The. By Sir 
E. Bulwer Lytton. 2d half.. 20 
Last of the Mohicans, The. By 

J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

Laurel Vane; or. The Girls’ 
Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller 20 

Lazarus in London. By F. W. 

Robinson 20 

Led Astray ; or, “ La Petite 
Comtesse.” Octave Feuillet. 10 
Leila ; or. The Siege of Grenada. 

By Bulwer Lytton 10 

Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

Lewis Arundel; or. The Rail- 
road of Life. By Frank E. 

Smedley 20 

Life and Adventures of Martin 
(ihuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half,, 20 


265 

10 

20 332 

80 

20 561 

“ 126 

435 

20 

10 733 

35 

10 

219 

20 

20 

469 

20 

20 268 

20 

506 

10 

155 

20 

161 

20 

497 

20 

20 652 

269 

20 

599 

20 

32 

20 

684 

20 40 

20 

20 130 

10 130 

20 

20 60 

10 267 

10 455 

20 386 

10 164 

20 408 

20 562 

20 

437 

30 

( 6 ) 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 

698 Life’s Atonement, A. Bj' David 

Christie Murray 20 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss. By “Rita”. 20 
402 Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the 
Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. 


Oliphant 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leaguer 
of Boston. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. First half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. Second half 20 

279 Little Goldie : A Stoiy of Wom- 
an’s Love. By Mrs. Sumner 

Hayden 20 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell 20 
179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

45 Little Pilgrim, A. By Mrs. Oli-. 
pliant 10 

272 Little Savage, The. By Captain 

Marryat 10 

111 Little School-master Mark, The. 

By J. H. Shorthouse 10 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” •. . . . 10 

749 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. By 

Mabel Collins 20 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. First half 20 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 
more. Second half 20 

473 Lost Son, A. By Mary Lin ski 11. 10 
354 Lottery of Life, The. A Story 
of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. By John Brougham .. 20 
453 Lottery Ticket, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobe}'’ 20 

479 Louisa. By Katharine S. Mac- 

quoid 20 

742 Love and Life. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge i 20 

273 Love and Mirage ; or. The Wait- 

ing on an Island. By M. 
Betham-Ed wards 10 


232 Love and Money; or, A Peril- 
ous Secret. By Chas. Reade . 10 
146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 
Stories. By Walter Besant 

and James Rice 10 

313 Lover’s Creed, The. By Mrs. 

Cashel Hoey 20 

573 Love’s Harvest. B. L. Farjeon 20 
175 Love’s Random Shot. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

757 Love’s Martyr. By Laurence 

Alma Tadema. 10 

291 Love’s Warfare. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne”... 10 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford. and Eric 
Dering. By “The Duchess” 10 

( 


Mrs. J. H. Needell 20 

Luck of the Darrells, The. By 

James Payn 20 

Lucy Crofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

Macleod of Dare. By William 

Black ■. 20 

Madame De Presnel. B)’^ E. 

Frances Poynter 20 

Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

Madcap Violet. By Wm. Black 20 
Mad Love, A. By the author of 

“ Lover and Lord ” . . .* 10 

Madolin's Lover. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 20 

Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 
Beauty of Red Oak Seminary, 

By Laura Jean Libbey 20 

Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 
the Scottish Reformation. By 

Mrs. Oliphant.. .’. 20 

Maiden All Forlorn, A, and Bar- 
bara. By “ The Duchess ”... 10 
Maiden Fair, A. Charles Gibbon 10 
Maid of Athens. By Justin 

McCarthy 20 

Maid of Sker, The. By R D. 

Blackmore. 1st half ' 20 

Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 2d half 20 

Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. First half 20 

Man and Wife. By Wiilde Col- 
lins. Second half 20 

Man of Honor, A. By John 
Strange Winter. Illustrated. 10 
Man She Cared For, The. By 

F. W. Robinson 20 

Margaret Maitland, ' By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

Market Harborough, and Inside 
the Bar. G. J. Whyte-Melvilie 20 
MaiTiage of Convenience, A. 

By Harriett Jay 10 

Married in Haste. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

Master Humphrey’s Clock, By 

Charles Dickens 10 

Master of the Mine, The. By 
Robert Buchanan 20 


Mathias San dor f. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Parti. 10 
Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Part 11 10 
Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 

Verne. (Illustrated.) Part III 10 
Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 


By Robert Buchanan 10 

Mauleverer’s Millions. By T. 
Wemy.ssReid 20 


May Blossom ; or, Betwe^^n Two 
Loves. By Margaret Lee 20 


582 

I 589 

I 370 

I 

44 

526 

345 

78 

510 

69 

341 

377 

449 

64 

121 

633 

633 

229 

702 

702 

688 

217 

371 

451 

334 

480 

615 

132 

646 

578 

578 

578 

398 

723 

m 

7 ) 


TEE SEASIDE LWJIADY.-Poclr.i Edition. 


3fl7 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
iucludinff some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. B3' 

Mrs. Oliphant 

424 IMercedes of Castile; or, Tne 
V oyage to Cathay. By J. Fen- 

imore Cooper 

406 Merchant’s Clerk, The. By Sam- 
uel Warren 

31 MidJlemarch. By George Eliot. 

First half 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

Second half 

187 Midnight Sun, The. Bj'Fredrika 

Bremer 

729 Mignon. By Mrs. Fori ester... 
492 Mignon ; or. Booties' Baby. By 

J. S. Winter 

G92 Mikado, The, and other Comic 
Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 

Sullivan 

390 ]\Iildred Trevanion. By “ The 

Duchess ” 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 
“ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 

3 Mill on the Floss, The. By 

George Eliot 

1 57 Milly’s Hero. By F. W. Robinson 

182 Millionaire. The 

SOS Minister’s Wife, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant : 

ci99 Miss Brovim. By Vernon Lee. . 
369 Miss Bretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 

24.S Miss Tommy., By Miss Mulock 
31f) Mistletoe Bough, The. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 

618 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited bj" Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

298 Mi tchel hurst Place. By Marga- 
ret Veley 

584 Mixed Motives 

2 Molly Bawn. By “ The Duch- 
ess ” 

1.59 Moment of Madness, A, and 
Other Stories. By Florence 

Marryat 

125 Monarch of Mincing Lane, The. 

By William Black 

201 Monastery, The. By Sir Walter 

Scott 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

By “The Duchess” 

431 Monikins, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. I 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. II 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. 

By “The Duchess” 

102 Moonstone, The. Wilkie Collins 
178 More Leaves from the Journal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 
By Queen Victoria 


Moths. By “Ouida” 20 

Mount Roj'al. By Miss .M. E. 

Braddon 20 

Mr. Butler’s Ward. Bj^ F. Ma,bel 

Robinson. 20 

Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. 

G. Wightwick 10 

Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thacke- 
ray 20 

Mrs. Geotfrey. By “ The Duch- 
ess ” : 20 

Mrs. Holl3'er. By Georgiana M. 

Craik 20 

Mrs. Keith’s Crime 10 

Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. B3’ 

Charles Dickens 10 

Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

B3' L. B. Walford 20 

Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 
Rhoda Broughton, and Oli- 
ver’s Bride. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 
Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

Murder or Manslaughter? B3' 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

My Ducats and My Daughter. 

By the author of “ The Crime 

of Christmas Day ” 20 

M3'^ iS-iends and 1. Edited b3' 

Julian Sturgis 10 

My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester.. 20 
My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

j\Iy Lord and My Lad5^ By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

My Sister Kate. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne,” and A Rainy' June. 

By “ Ouida ” 10 

Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Parti 2G 

Mysteries of Paris, The. B3' Eu- 
gene Sue. Part II 20 

Mysterious Hunter, The; or. 
The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 

Mystery of Allan Grale, The. By 

Isabella Fyvie Mayo 20 

Mystery of Edwin Drood, The. 

By Ciias. Dickens 20 

Mystery of Jessy Page, The, 
and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry W^ood 10 

Mystery' of Orcival, The. By- 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

Mvstery, The. By Mrs. Henry' 

Wood 20 

My' Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

By Silvio Pellico 10 

My V.’ife’s Niece. By the author 
of •' Doctor Edith Romney 2t) 
My Young Alcides. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 20 


Nabob, The: A Story of Paris- 
ian Life and Manners. By Al- 
phonse Daudet '. 20 

Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton . 20 


116 

495 

501 

20 

113 

20 675 

10 25 

20 606 

20 .546 

440 

10 

20 256 

10 645 

339 

20 

6a5 

10 

596 

20 

405 

“>0 

20 726 

20 623 

30 724 

20 

433 

10 

10 

20 271 

271 

20 

366 

10 

10 

662 

20 

454 

10 514 

20 

43 

20 

255 

10 

725 

20 

612- 

20 

666 

20 

10 

20 574 

10 227 


TEE SEA^^TEE LlBUAnY.— Pocket Edition. 


509 Nell Haffenden. By Tighe Hop- 
kins 

181 New Abelard, The. By Robert 

Buchanan 

464 Newcomes. The. By William 
Makepeace Thackera}'. Bart 


464 Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray, Part 

II 

52 New Magdalen, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. B}' Charles 

Dickens. Fii'St half 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 

105 Noble Wife, A. John Saunders 
565 No Medium. By Annie Thomas 
614 No. 99. By xVrthur Griffiths .' . . 
290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary 

Cecil Haj^ 

595 North Country Maid, A. By 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 

168 No ThorougUfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 

610 Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 
M. Yonge 


425 Oak-Openings, The; or. The 
Bee-Hunter. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 

211 Octoroon, The 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 
ries. By Florence Marryat.. 
10 Old Curiosity Shop, The. By 

Charles Dickens 

410 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant '. 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 

41 Oliver Twist. By Chas. Dickens 

505 Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 
ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 

143 One ^’alse, Both Fair. Bj^ John 

B. Harwood 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 
Minor. By Captain Fred Bur- 
naby 

498 Only a Clod. By Miss M, E. 

Braddon 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 

655 Open Door, The, and The Por- 
trait. By Mrs. Oliphant 

708 Ormond. By Maria Edgewortli 
12 Other People’s Money. By 

Emile Gaboriau 

639 Othmar. By “ Ouida ” 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Ch.arles 

Dickens. First half 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. Second half 

747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 
by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 


Pair of Blue Eyes, A. By Thom- 
as Hardy. . : 20 

Parson o’ Dumford, The. By 

G. Manville Feun 20 

Pascarel. 13y “Ouida” 20 

Passive Crime, A, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 
Pathfinder, The. By J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

Paul Clifford. By Sir E. Bulwer 

Lytton, Bart 20 

Paul Crew’s Story. By Alice 

Comyns Carr 10 

Paul Vargas, and Other Stories. 

By Hugh Conway, author of 

“Called Back” 10 

Peeress and Player. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

Peril. By Jessie Fothergill ... 20 
Perpetual Curate, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

Peter the Whaler. By William 

H. G. Kingston 10 

Peveril of the Peak. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

Phautastes. A Faerie Romance 
for Men and Women. By 

George Macdonald 10 

Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

Philosophy of Whist, The. By 

William Pole 20 

Ph5ilis. By “ The Duchess ”. . 20 
Pliyllis’ Probation. By the au- 
thor of “ His Wadded Wife ” . 10 
Piccadilly. Laurence Oliphant 10 
Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens, Vol. 1 20 

Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. IT 20 

Pictures From Ital}', and The 
Mudfog Papers, &c. By Chas. 

Dickens 20 

Picture, The, and Jack of All 
Trades. By Charles Reade. . . 10 
PiMouche, a French Detective.* 
By Fortune Du Boisgobey... 10 
Pioneers, The ; or. The Sources 
of the Susquehanna. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

Pirate, The. By Sir Walter Scott 20 
Polish Jew, The. (Translated 
from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) By Erckmann- 

Chatrian 10 

Portent, The. By George Mac- 
donald 10 

Portia. By “ The Duchess ”... 20 
Poverty Corner. By G. Manville 

Fenn 20 

Prairie, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

Precaution. B3* J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

Pretty Jailer, The. B.y F. Du 

Boisgobe.y. 1st half 20 

Pretty Jailer, The. B}’- F. Du 
Boisgobej*. 2d half 20 


530 

20 

587 

10 

2138 

517 

20 

309 

20 720 

10 .571 

20 525 

20 

20 449 

10 

10 .314 

568 

20 

133 

20 

392 

10 

326 

20 

20 56 

.336 

669 

16 

20 372 

10 

537 

10 24 

20 24 

10 448 

20 

20 206 

20 

264 

10 

318 

20 

393 

20 329 

20 

20 325 

10 6 

20 .558 

20 310 

20 

422 

20 

697 

20 

697 

10 

( 9 ^ 


THE FiEAl^lDE TABEAUT.— Pocket EdUion. 


5J07 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Groker 

475 Prima Donna’s Husband, The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 

531 Prime Ministei*, The. By An- 
thony Trollope. First Half . . 
531 Prime Minister, The. By An- 
thony Trollope. Second Half 
624 Primus in ludis. By M. J. Col- 

quhoun 

249 “Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 
By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 

5.56 Prince of Darkness, A. By F. 

Warden 

704 Prince Otto. B}’ K. L. Steven- 
son 

228 Princess Napraxine. “Ouida” 
23 Pi’incess of Thule, A. B3' Will- 
iam Black 

88 Privateersman, The. By Cap- 
tain Marr y at 

321 Prodigals, The: And Their In- 
heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant. 
144 Promises of Marriage. By Emile 

Gaboriau 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 
516 Put Asunder; or, Lady Castle- 
maine’s Divorce. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. B3" 
Charles Reade 

68 Queen Amongst Women, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 

591 Queen of Hearts, The, By Wil- 
kie Collins 


641 Rabbi’s Spell, The. By Stuart 

C. Cumberland 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Troll- 

o])e 

601 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- 
tie 31urray 

700 Ralph tlie Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope, First half 

700 Ral])h i;.e Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. Second half 

442. Rauthorpe. By George Henry 

Lewes 

327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 
tile German of E. Werner.) 

By Ohristina Tyrrell 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events. By Chas. Reade 
381 Red Cardinal, The. By Frances 

Elliot 

• 73 Redeemed by Love. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 

89 Red Eric, The. By R. M. Ballan- 

tyne 

463 Redgauntlet. By Sir Walter 
Scott 


20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 


20 


10 


10 

10 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 


20 


20 

20 


580 Red Route, The. By William 

Sime 20 

.301 Red Rover, The. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 
421 Redskins, The; or, Indian and 
Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage Manuscripts. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

427 Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P., 
The. Formerly known as 
. “Tommy Upmore.” By R. 

D. Blackmore 20 


237 Repented at Leisure.' By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Doi-a Thorne” 20 

740 Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester... .. 20 
375 Ride to Khiva, A. By Captain 

Fred Burnaby 20 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

ot “Dora Thorne” 10 

66 Romance of a Poor Y ouug Man, 

The. By Octave Feuillet 10 

139 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid, The. By Thomas Hardy 10 

42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 

360 Ropes of Sand. B3’ R. E. Francil- 

lon 20 

664 Rory O’More. Bv Samuel Lover 20 
670 Rose and the Ring, The. By 

W. M. Thackeray.. 10 

103 Rose Fleming. B3" Dora Russell 10 
296 Rose in Thorns. A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 


“Dora Thorne” 10 


193 Roseiy Folk, The. B3" G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

129 Rossmoyme. B3'“ The Duchess” 10 
180 Round the Galle3' Fire. B3’’ W. 

Clark Russell 10 

566 Royal Highlanders, The; or. 
The Black Watch in Egypt. 

By James Grant 20 

736 R'>y and Viola. Mrs. Forrester 20 
409 Ro 3 '’s Wife. By G. J. Whyte- 

Melville '. ... 20 

489 Rupert Godwin. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

457 Russians at the Gates of Herat, 

The. By Charles Marvin. ... 10 


20 


20 

10 

10 

20 

10 


20 


616 Sacred Nugget, The. By B. L. 

Far jeon 20 

223 Sailor’s Sweetheart, A. By’ W. 

Clark Russell '. . . . . 20 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
420 Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 
Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore 

Coopei- ■ 20 

660 Scottish Chiefs, The. By’ Miss 

Jane Porter. 1st half 20 

660 Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 2d half 20 

699 Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 1st halt. .. 20 


( 10 ) 


THE SEASIDE LlDDAnY.— Pocket Edition. 


699 Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half — 20 
441 Sea Change, A. By Flora L. 

Shaw 20 

82 Sealed Lips. F. Du Boisgobey. 30 
423 Sea Lions, The; or. The Lost 

Sealers. By J. F. Cooper ... 20 
85 Sea Queen, A. By W. Clark 
Russell 20 

490 Second Life, A. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

101 Second Thoughts. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

387 Secret of the Cliffs, The. B}'’ 

Charlotte French 20 

607 Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 

6.51 “ Self or Bearer.” By Walter • 

Besant 10 

474 Serapis. An Historical Novel. 

By George Ebers 20 

445 Shadow of a Crime, The. B\" 

Hall Caine 20 

293 Shadow of a Sin. The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, autlior of 

-“Dora Thorne” 10 

18 Shandon Bells. By Wm. Black 20 
418 St. Rouan’s Well. B3' Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

141 She Loved Him! B.y Annie 

Thomas 10 

,520 She's All the World to Me. By 

Hall Caine 10 

.57 Shirle.y. B\^ Charlotte Bront6. 20 

2.39 Signa. By “Ouida” 20 

707 Silas Marner: The Weaver of 

of Raveloe, By George Eliot 10 
.539 Silvermead. B.y Jean Middle , 

mas 20 

681 Singer’s Stor3% A. By May 

Laffan 10 

2.52 Sinless Secret, A. B.y ” Rita ” 10 
283 Sin of a Lifetime, The. B.y 

Charlotte M. B)-aeme, author 

of ” Dora Thorne ” 10 

815 Sir Jasper’s Tenant. By’^ Miss 

M. E. Brad don 20 

643 Sketch-book of Geoffrey Cray- 
on, Gent, The. B.y Washing- 
ton Irving 20 

4.56 Sketches b.y Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day' People. B.y Charles Dick- 
ens .' 20 

601 Slings and Arrows, and other 
Stories. By’ Hugh Conway’, 
author of ‘‘Called Back”... 10 

491 Society in London. By a For- 

eign Resident 10 

505 Society of London, The. By’ 

Count Paul Vasili 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. B.y Mrs. C. 

J. Eiloart 20 

412 Some One Else. By B. M. Croker 20 
194 ‘‘So Near, and Yet So Far!” 

By Alison 10 

368 Southern Star, The ; or. The Dia- 
mond Land. By .Tides Verne 20 
63 The. B.y J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

(1 


Squire’s Legacy, The. By Maiy 

Cecil Hay 20 

Starling, The. By Norman 

Macleod. D.D 10 

Stella. By Fanny Lewald 20 

“ Storm-Beaten :” God and The 
Man. By’ Robert Buchanan. 20 
Stoiy of a Sin. B.y Helen B. 

Mathers .20 

Story of Doroth.y Grape, The. 
and Other Tales. By Mrs. 
Henry Wood 10 


Story of Ida. The. B.3’ Francesca 10 
Strange Adventiire.s of a Phae- 
ton. The. B.y William Black. 20 
Strange Case of Dr. .Jeky'll and 
Mr. Hyde. By Robert Louis 


Stevenson 10 

Strangers and Pilgrims. B.y 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

Strange Story’, A. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton ‘20 

Strange Voyage, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

Strange World, A. B.y Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Struck Dow’n. By’ Hawle.y Smart 10 
Struggle for a Ring, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

” Dora Thorne ” 20 

Struggle for Fame, A. By Mrs. 

J. H. Riddell 20 

Sun-Maid. The. B.y Miss Grant 20 
Sunria.- ; A Stoiy of These Times 

By Wm. Black 20 

Sunshine and Roses ; or, Diana's 
Discipline. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

Surgeon’s Daughters, The. B.y' 
Mrs. Heniy Wood. A Man of 
His Word. B.y W. E. Norris. 10 
Surgeon’s Daughter, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

Sweet is True Love. B.y ‘‘ The 

Duchess ” * 10 

Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 
Rodney’s Secret. By Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 


Taken at the Flood. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon ’. 20 

Tale of the Shore and Ocean, A. 

B.y William H. G. Kingston.. SO 
Tale of Two Cities, A. B.y 

Charles Dickens .' *. 20 

Talk of the Town, The. Bv 

James Payn .'. 20 

Terrible Temptation, A. B.y* 

Chas. Reade ^ 

Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss 

Jane Porter 20 

That Beautiful Wretch. By 

William Black 20 

‘‘That Last Rehearsal,” and 
Other Stories. By’ ” The 
Duchess ” 10 


281 

158 

436 

145 

673 

610 

53 

.50 

686 

524 

83 

592 

511 

550 

467 

71 

222 

21 

2.50 

277 

363 

123 

316 

.5.50 

117 

i i 

343 

213 

696 

49 

136 

D 


THE SEASIDE LlBlHUtT.- -Pocket Pklition. 


355 'J'liat Terrible Man. By W. E. 
Norris. The Princess Dago- 
niar of Poland. By Heinrich 

Felbermann 10 

48 Thicker Than Water. B}" James 

Payn 20 

184 Thiriby Hall. By W. E. Norris 20 
148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “Dora Thorne” 10 

275 Three Brides, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 10 

124 Three Feathers. By Wm. Black 20 
55 Three Guardsmen, The. By 

Alexander Dumas 20 

382 Three Sisters. By Elsa D’l^s- 

terre-Keeling 10 

471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 
485 Tinted Vapours. By J. Maclaren 

Cobban 10 

503 Tinted Venus, The. By F. Anstey 10 
120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 
Rugby. By Thoitias Hughes. 20 
243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” By 

Charles Lever. First half... 20 
243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By 

Charles Lever. Second half. 20 
557 To the Bitter End. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir 10 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 

By Jules Verne » 20 

75 Twenty Years After. By Alex- 
ander Dumas 20 

714 ’Twdxt Love and Duty. By 

Tighe Hopkins... 20 

349 Two Admirals, The. A Tale of 
the Sea. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

307 Two Kisses, and Like no Other 
Love. By Charlotte M. Bi aeme 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 10 
242 Tw'O Orphans, The. By D’En- 

nery 10 

56;i Two Sides of the Shield, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. 

Py R. H. Dana, Jr 20 

407 Tylhey Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 


137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 
152 Uncommercial Traveler, The. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge. 20 
654 “ Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

By Mrs. Molesworth 10 

460..Under a Shadow. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. 

By Florence Marryat (Mrs. 

Francis Lean). 10 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss 
M. E. Braddon.'. 10 

a8) 


4 Under Tw'o Flags. By“Ouida” 20 
340 Under Which King? By Comp- 
ton Reade j. 20 

718 Unfairly AVon. By Mrs. Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

634 Unforeseen, The. By Alice 

O’Hanlon 20 

508 Unholy Wish, The. By Mrs. 
Henry Wood. The Girl at the 

Gate. By Wilkie Collins 10 

735 Until the Day Breaks. By 
Emily Spender 20 


482 Vagrant Wife, A. By F. Warden 20 
691 Valentine Strange. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 10 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. 

Thackeray 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- 
worth Taylor 20 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles 

Reade 20 

59 Vice Versa. By F. Anstey 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 20 

583 Victory Deane. By Cecil Griffith 20 

545 Vida’s Story 10 

734 Viva. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 


659 Waif of the “ Cynthia,” The. 

By Jules Verne 20 

91 Wanda, Countess von Szalras. 

By “Ouida” 20 

270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part 1 20 

270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part 11 20 

621 Warden, The. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

266 AVatex*- Babies, The. By the 

Rev. Charles Kingsley 10 

512 Waters of Hercules, The 20 

112 Waters of Mai’ah, The. By John 

Hill 20 

359 Water-Witch, The. By J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

401 AVaverley, By Sir AValter Scott 20 
195 “ Way of the World, The.” By 

David Christie Muri'ay •. . 20 

415 Ways of the Hour, The. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper.. 20 

344 “Wearing of the Green, The.” . 

By Basil 20 

312 Week in Killarne3% A. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

458 AVeek of Passion, A; or. The 
Dilemma of Mr. Geoi’ge Bar- 
ton the Younger. By Edward 
J©TikiDS 

79 AVedded and Parted. By Char 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

628 Wedded Hands. A Novel JiO 


TEE SEASIDE LlBRAli Yr— Pocket Edition, 


400 Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish, The. 

ByJ. Fenimore Cooper.. . . 20 
637 What’s His Offence? A Novel. 20 
722 What’s Mine’s Mine. By George 

Macdonald. . . . - 20 

679 Where Two Ways Meet. By 

Sarah Doudney 10 

320 Which Loved Him Best? By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” . . 10 

236 Which Shall It Be? By Mrs. 

Alexander 20 

627 White Heather. By Wm. Black 20 
70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
mance. By William Black . . 10 

335 White Witcti, The.. 20 

38 Widow Lerouge, The. By Emile 

Gaboriau — 20 

76 Wife in Name Only. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

254 Wife’s Secret, The, and Fair 
but False. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

323 Willful Maid, A 20 

373 Wing and Wing. By J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

163 Winifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 
rell . . . , 20 

472 Wise Women of Inverness, 

The. By Wm. Black. ..10 

■•34 Witching Hour, The, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess ” . 10 
432 Witch’s Head, The. By H. 

Rider Haggard . . . 20 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. 

By Emile Gaboriau ... .20 


358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- 


wick Harwood . — = . 30 

98 Woman-Hater, A. By Charles 

Reade 20 

705 Woman I Loved, The, and the 
• Woman Who Loved Me. By 

Isa Blagden 10 

701 Woman in White, The. By Wil- 
kie Collins. First half 20 

701 Woman in White, The. By Wil- 
kie Collins. Second half 20 
322 Woman’s Love-Story, A . . . . 10 

459 Woman’s Temptation, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” . . 20 

295 Woman’s War, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Bi'aeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” ...... . 10 

17 Wooing O’t, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 
Knoll. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 
434 Wyllard’s Weird. ByMissM. E. 

Braddon 20 


1 Yolande. By William Black.. 20 


709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 
myra. By William Ware. 

First half . ... 20 

709 Zenobia ; or. The Fall 'of Pal- 
myra. By William Ware. 

Second half 10 

428 Zero: A Story of Monte-Caido. 

By IV^rs. Campbell Praed 10 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or. The 
Steel Gauntlets. By F. Du 
Boisgobey . . 20 


Persons who wish to purchase the foregoing woi'ks in complete and un- 
abridged form are cautioned to order and see that they get -The Seaside 
Library, Pocket Edition, as works published in other libraries are fre- 
quently abridged and incomplete. Every number of The Seaside Library 
Is unchanged and unabridged. 

Newsdealers wishing catalogues of The Seaside Library, Pocket Edi- 
tion, beaming their imprint, will be supplied ou sending their names, 
addresses, and number required. 

The Avorks in The Seaside Library, Pocket Editum, are printed from 
.larger type and on better paper than any other series published. 

The foregoing works ai’e for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to 
any address, postage free, on receipt of price, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, 

Munro’s Publishing House, 

17 to 37 Vandewater St. and 45 to 53 Rose St., N, Y 
P. O. Box 3751. 


[When ordering by mail please order by 


THE SEASIDE LIBRAKY.— Pocket Edition. 


LATEST ISSUES 


NO. 

669 

748 

749 

750 

750 

755i 

753 

754 

755 

756 

757 
','58 

759 

760 

761 

762 

763 

764 

765 

766 

767 

768 

769 

770 

771 

772 

773 

774 


20 


PRICK. 

Pole on Whist 20 

Hurrish : A Study. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 

Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. By 

Mabel Collins 20 

An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. By Fritz Reuter. First 

half 

An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. By Fritz Reuter. Second 

half .' 

Jackanapes, and Other Stories. 

By Juliana Horatia Ewing. . 

King Solomon’s Mines. By H. 

Rider Haggard 

How to be Happy Though Mar- 
• ried. By a Graduate in the 

University of Matrimony 20 

Margery Daw. A Novel 20 

The Strange Adventures of Cap- 
tain Dangerous. ANarrative 
in Plain English. Attempted 

by George Augustus Sala 

Love’s Martyr. By Laurence 

Alma Tadema 

" Good-bye, Sweetheart ! ” By 

Rhoda Broughton 

In Shallow AVaters. By Annie 

Armitt 

Aureliau ; or, Rome in the Third 
Century. By William Ware.. 
Will Weatherhelm. By Wm. 

H. G. Kingston . 

Impressions of Theophrastus 

Such. By George Eliot 10 

The Midshipman, Marmaduke 
Merry. By Wm. H. G. Kingston 20 
The Evil Genius. By AVilkie 

Collins 20 

Not AVisely, But Too Well. By 

Rhoda Broughton 

No. XIII ; or, the Story of the 
Lost Vestal. By Emma Mar- 
shall 

Joan. By Rhoda Broughton . . . 
Red as a Rose is She. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

Cometh Up as a Flower. 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

The Castle of Otranto. By 

Horace AValpole 10 

A Mental Struggle. By “ The 

Duchess” 20 

Gascoyne, the Sandal Wood 
Trader. By R. M. Ballantyne 20 
The Mark of Cain. By Andrew 

Lang 10 

The Life and Travels of Mungo 
Park 10 


20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 


20 


10 

20 


NO. 


10 

20 


PRICE 

The Three Clerks. By Anthony 

Trollope 20 

P^re Goriot. By H. De Balzac. 20 
The A’oyages and Travels of Sir 
John Maundeville, Kt. . ... 10 

Society’s Verdict. BytheAuthor ' 

of “ My Marriage ” 20 

Doom ! An Atlantic Episode. 

By Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 
Rare Pale Margaret. By author 

' of “ AATiat’sHis Otfeiice?” 

The Secret Dispatch. By James 

Grant 10 

The Closed Door. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

The Closed Door. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 

Chantry House. By Charlotte '• . 

M. Yonge 20 

The Two Miss Flemings. By the 
author of “ AA’ hat’s His 

Offence?”. 20 

The Haunted Chamber. By 

“The Duchess” 10 

Court Royal. A Story of Cross 
Currents. By S. Bariug-Gould 20 
Through the Looking - Glass, 
and What Alice Found There. 

By Lewis Carroll. AATth fifty 
illustrations by John Tenniel. 20 
The Chaplet of Pearls ; or. The 
White and Black Ribaumont. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 
The Chaplet of Pearls ; or, The 
AA’hite and Black Ribaumont. 
Chai'lotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 
The Mayor of Casterbridge. By 

Thomas Hardy .' 20 

A^ivian Grey. By the Right Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 

Beaconsfield. First half 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Right Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 
Beaconsfield. Second half .. . 20 


776 

777 

778 

779 

780 

781 

782 

782 

783 

784 

785 
787 

789 

790 

790 

791 
793 


794 Beaton’s Bargain. 

By Mrs. 

Al- 


exander 



20 

795 Sam’s Sweetheart. 

By Helen 


B. Mathers 

^ • 


20 

796 In a Grass Country. 

A Story of 


Love and Sport. 

By Mr^. 

H. 


Lovett Cameron.. 


20 

797 Look Before You 

Leap. 

By 


Mrs. Alexander. . . 

20 


800 


800 


Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 
Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 


The foregoing works, contained in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on 
receipt of price. Parties oi'dering by mail will please order by numbers. Ad- 
dress 

GEOKGK niUNKG, 


P. O. Box 3751. 


mUNKO’S PUKI.ISH1NG HOUSE, 

IT to 27 Vandewater Street, Y, 



^ FrcKltiies 
Soft.WhTte 
eaoliful Rands 


Defi^iiful^ 

Fragrant 


PEARS’ SOAP IMPROVES THE COM. 
FLEXION, IS UNRIVALED AS A PURE DE- 
LIGHTFUL TOILET SOAP, AND IS FOR SALE 
THROUGHOUT THE CIVILIZED WORLD 



The Hew York Monthly Fashion Bazar. 

A NEW STORY AND PROBABLY THE LAST 

By Mary Cecil Hay, 

ENTITLED, 

“A WICKED GIRL,” 

WILL BE COMMENCED IN THE JULY NUMBER 

OF THE 

New York Monthly Fashion Bazar. 


We give below the Author’s letter in regard to the story: — 

MR. GEORGE MUNRO; 

Dear Sir, — Since writing to you I have decided not to issue my last 
story here as a fellow to “ Called Back,” but, as it is certain to be my 
last work, to bring it out, through Hurst & Blackett, for twelve months (as be- 
fore), then through Maxwell — not having it to run in serial here at all. Buf I 
am quite willing you should issue it as a serial in America, on the old terms, if 
you care to; and, if so, you can begin on any date you choose. I ask you first, 
-because you had “ Lester’s Secret,” and “ Dorothy’s Venture,” etc. But I must 
beg you, if you decline., to wire me “ No,” as I shall wire then to another house. 
You will pardon this request, as my serious illness makes me wish to have these 
matters arranged ; but I will give directions, in case I am not here to receive 
your letter or cable. I am preparing the MS. in seven parts (it is called “ A 
Wicked Girl a good title, do you not think?), and will register them all to 
you on receipt of the old terms — duplicates to follow; or if you prefer to wire 
“ Yes,” I will mail them before waiting for your letter, as you will be tied to no 
date for commencing, as I have refused to issue here in any serial. Many 
thanks for the copies of my short stories; many thanks, also, for your pleasant 
letter. It gives me a very glad sensation, after all, to feel that my last tale will 
appear in America in only American dress. 

Yours, very truly, 

MARY CECIL HAY. 

‘‘ A WICKED GIRL ” will be commenced in the July number 
of the Bazar, 


THE NEW YORK MONTHLY FASHION BAZAR is for sale by all news- 
dealers, It will also be sent, postage prepaid, for 25 cents per single cojw* The 
subscription price is $3,00 per year. Address, GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s 
P uBUSHiNG House, 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. (P. O. Box 3751.) 


THE CELEBRATED 


SOBMER 


GEAND, SQUAEE AND UPEIGHT PIANOS. 


FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 


Centennial Exnibi- 
tion, 1876; Montreal, 
1881 and 1882. 


The enviable po- 
sition Sohmer & 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 



They are used 
in Conservato- 
ries, Schools and 
Seminaries, on ac- 
count ot their su- 
perior tone and 
unequaled dura- 
bility. 

The SOHMER 
Piano is a special 
favorite vrith the 
leading musicians 
and critics. 


ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPUEAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER & CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N. Y. 


6,000 miES 


OS’ 

RAILROAD 



THE BEST 


iisr 

THE WORLD 


IT TBAVEBSEB THE MOST DESIBABLE POKTIONS OF 

ILLINOIS, IOWA, NEBRASKA, WISCONSIN, MINNESOTA, 
DAKOTA AND NORTHERN MICHIGAN. 


THE POPULAR SHORT LINE 


CHICAGO, 

OMAHA, 


BETWEEN 

MILWAUKEE, MADISON, ST. PAUL, 
COUNCIL BLUFFS, DENVER, 

PORTLAND, OREGON, 

AND AIjIj points IN THE WEST AND NORTHWEST. 


MINNEAPOLIS, 
SAN FRANCISCO, 


PALACE SLEEPING ^ G ARS, ^ PALATIAL ^ DINING GARS 


AND SUPERB DAY COACHES ON THROUGH TRAINS. 


Close connections In Union depots with branch and connectingrlines 


ALL AGENTS SELL TICKETS VIA THE NORTH-WESTERN. 


R«w Vork OIBee, 409 Broadway. Chicago Ofllee, 62 Clark St. Denver OlHee, 8 Windsor Hotel Block. 

Boston Offlee. & State Street. Omaha Olttee, 1411 Farnam St. San Francisco Office, 2 New Montgomery St. 

Minneapolis Ufflee, 13 Nicollet House. St. Paul Office, 159 E. Third St. Milwaukee Office, 102 Wisconsin Street. 


R. S. H A I R. General Passenirer Aeent. CHICAGO. IM,. 







i " • A 


■ '< ' Bb^w.fw»jp ''• *. f 


»• 


, r l'^:. 



r 


A. '» 


• t 


- “ ;'* 

• 'j 


. ’ *• - “ 'ft? 

^ r'r 1^ ' ' kl 





•1 


' *1 

«*V L* 


^ ii' i 

. . •■ .>r^ 


S' 


• '# 


• <i 




.V ' 



I * * • - ^ ,•*'''•' '.•’A’*? '■* 








•» / 


■\ •• 


■ ' ■ *V.*k ^' '• "’’t 




S ^"''^ 4 '^‘''”V''- 


-«•• ' ^.J vfflT'.f'i . 


* * •“'iw* ■ 






r- y 


'VI ' 





l3v la 


t I 


A . t 


U.,, 




^ If;: • '. '-‘.i 

T . <> 1 j_ 



• * 


I . j 


I I 






%.sNV?tn»' 


t I |JV\' p' 

I - . r. 


/■•V 


I • 


!»' * i.' ^ " . 


i ;■ 


'> • •> . 


'V''*, . 





u 







•I » 








> t 


» *.'rr' • ■*»'.' 


- ,'W^• -• » '■■ • 

i- 'f * ' 'i 

■ A f * . ' 1 • 



> * 


V^- r‘*j ’-■ 

•' ? k. 


v.‘/v • 





. k . .-. r« 


- / «’■ 


i-ti ■^_, ' 


»• y''“ ''■ 

LV- --i'V A 

*:• r 




V - V*>/> 'S" 

* >*“ f ;^- , .* • . 






> 



r?;.' fc'r'Cr' 

4 'W*.. ’,' r 

^■■Vr ' 


t • 


w-< 


> - I 


* ' ■<>■’ 




vV 



Vfrrts'. ^■ 








ft 


• S 

> 1^1 







» -; 


’*• ►/. 1 1 ■ 


> « 


u-jm 




• . V V 











* • • 


..M 


m 


jf* ;. 

y . Hi • 


..i 


. . ^ k , w 


• V ^ 

I ».-v • > ■> 

i /• ‘1 

■ vi-ff''. '. 




■ : Ji 


V 





• .v^'^ > Lp^ - -t} ' Aa7A 







I S- 







•* .9 




1 

• tf 

‘ • .. 

• 4:1^ 

J- • 


.^V i./ ' 

. • • 
■/'r 

t ^ * 

'.' ' 

► »' 

V ' 

' ' j 

• ;. :• ■ 

1 

'A o- 

,.4;'4^V ■ 

• ' 

♦ 

J 


^'.C ' 




'V .,." . 

« ' A » 


^ 'v 



'» / 


*»V 






A p ^ ^ 




^ ^ r\ 


^ 'r^^ A r^'r\^-^r} 


•N /% /\ ' ^ ^ 


m 

nnn 

A Ov M />. 

^ A 

«% ' . A 

'^ rv 

A 0. 


■ A r 

A 


A z^*^. 









mWWMWKW^ 

T T riP^if 




g|Hfl^jlEPw^nillWI^B|Mg 

QE|IH|m|C 


bf^WAr^HBl&lfl^fWlU 

m^^^UKHKUum 

^■S^mMMiBlillilB^BjHBMi 













library of tX>NGRESS 









